Heimdal's Horn
by The Real Muse
Summary: Straker leads an expedition to a downed UFO in the Arctic, but time is critical and disaster just over the next hill. Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

HEIMDAL'S HORN  
  
By: CindyR  
  
SkyDiver-1 was without a doubt the most advanced and versatile battlecraft in Earth's navy. SkyDiver prime was a submarine, designed and crafted under the highest security the Groton, Connecticut, dry docks could offer, and capable of plumbing the vast ocean depths deeper, farther and faster than any submarine anywhere on the planet. Sky-1, her perfectly melded aerial counterpart, was carried on her nose. Capable of rocket-assisted underwater launch from a depth of 90 feet, triple jets ignited in air, enabling Sky-1 to attain a height of over seven miles mean sealevel. Together they and their doubled replicas scattered in every hemisphere were Earth's second line of defense against the enemy she fought regularly - the advanced alien civilization that made constant raids against the inhabitants of this fragile biosphere. Without such defenses as SkyDiver, and the base/ arsenal located on the moon, Earth would have long ago succumbed to her enemy, existing only to be harvested for what was suspected to be the macabre fate of supplying replacement body parts to sustain the alien forms.  
  
"Message from SHADO headquarters, sir," the pretty black woman at SkyDiver's communications board called, holding her headset a little closer to her ear. "SID is reporting a positive contact; it slipped past Moonbase defenses and is due to enter atmosphere within one hundred miles of our present location. Speed has dropped to Sol zero-decimal-seven, ETA twenty minutes. Sky-4 and -6 are also on alert."  
  
Captain Lew Waterman, commander of SkyDiver, descended the metal stair from the navigation bridge to the dive station, moving his tall, rangy form through the cramped surroundings with practiced grace. "Do you have it on radar yet, Lieutenant?" he rapped, laying one hand on her shoulder to steady himself. His brown leather tunic draped across her light net one as he bent over the console himself.  
  
Nina Barry shook her head, her auburn hair bobbing against her neck. "Nothing yet, sir, but Lieutenant Ford is triangulating a polar intercept, coordinates coming in now."  
  
Waterman straightened in surprise. "Polar? Most Ufos skip in from equator to Northern Hemisphere so the atmosphere will bleed off their speed during reentry. Why are they deviating now?"  
  
"Unknown, Captain, but Commander Straker is ordering a launch of Sky-1 with full recorders. He's interested himself."  
  
"Looks like that's my cue, then. Bring SkyDiver to a forty-degree up bubble; I'd rather my rockets didn't straight-line me into that underwater mountain range." She nodded, and Waterman's strong features softened in a brief smile for the pretty officer, then he strode for the forward hatch, snagging up a helmet en route. "You have command, Lieutenant Barry. And I have a date with a Ufo."  
  
***  
  
Ex-astronaut, war hero and current head of Harlington-Straker film studios, Ed Straker braked his brand new, 1999 Quasar coupe under the carport at his studio's front entrance, and stepped out just ahead of the lot attendant, who leapt in to take the car to its conveniently assigned space. A perk of being studio head, he reflected with a wry smile, meaning he didn't have to walk more than a dozen feet to the front door of his facility. It was one of the few privileges he allowed himself, more part of the facade than personal desire, though one he enjoyed considering the often dreary, chill weather of this site a mere 100 miles north of London.  
  
He nodded curtly at the guard inside the entrance, aware that the deceptively benevolent looking matron to his rear was scanning him head to foot in a sensor monitor, verifying his identity before he'd progressed more than a few yards. The glitzy lobby gave way to a main corridor leading from administration to several studios, a short hall off of that allowing him access to the executive branch and his own office.  
  
"Miss Ealand," he greeted the attractive blonde occupying the receptionist's position in the foyer. She smiled warmly at him, using one painted nail to gesture at a woman sitting on the couch against the wall.  
  
"Sir, this is Miss Lily Frankl. She says she was sent over by a Mr. DeBeers?"  
  
Straker rested his briefcase on the secretary's desk, turning his head to examine the visitor openly. She was certainly worth looking at: her Nordic coloring was almost as pale as his own, though her hair was several shades darker than Straker's white-blond, and eyes a shade lighter than the azure through which he regarded the world. She uncrossed long legs and stood, adjusting the micromini skirt to greatest effect. "How do you do, Mr. Straker," she greeted him in a throaty contralto. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time."  
  
He accepted her handshake reluctantly, releasing it immediately and returning his clutch to his briefcase. Even as he sought her eyes, seeking some clue as to her reason for being there, he was aware of the return being true, though far less analytically. She skimmed his six-foot height brazenly, starting with the well muscled shoulders and trailing down to trim hips. That accomplished, she returned her gaze to the smooth, virtually unlined features that made him look a decade younger than his forty-six years, her smile slipping a bit at the frost in his expression. "Miss Frankl." Straker's tenor was as cold as his gaze; he wasn't unaware of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, but rather than celebrating his looks, considered them more annoyance than asset for all that he worked out regularly and wore only the latest tailored fashions. He offered a brief prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening that, since that East Indian designer Rajasthan Assam re-introduced Nehru jackets over turtlenecks as the zenith of masculine haute couture, spandex was no longer required dress at movie studios. "I'm only slightly acquainted with Mr. DeBeers at Whitehead Productions, but I know him well enough to wonder why he would send one of his top actresses to me."  
  
She dimpled charmingly, recovering her aplomb in the face of rejection with practiced ease. "You recognize me! How very clever of you. I was afraid you hadn't." She leaned forward, taking on a conspiratorial attitude. "Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely American accent you have?"  
  
Straker sighed, recognizing a scam when he heard one. Despite being a front for the military operation known as SHADO -- Supreme Headquarters, Alien Defense Organization -- to the world at large Harlington-Straker was no more than a film studio, with all the behind-the-scenes manipulations that premise entailed. Since becoming operational eleven years, six months ago, Harlington-Straker Studios had produced only a handfull of profit- making movies, accidents all, though that hadn't stopped rising young starlets like Lily from offering their services -- among other things -- for the opportunity at some employment.  
  
"I'm a very busy man, Miss Frankl," Straker stated, using one hand to smooth the plain white tunic jacket he wore. "If you're looking for work...."  
  
The woman's smile slipped again. She darted a quick look at the openly watching Miss Ealand, then batted patently false eyelashes in a demonstration of demurement. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping to read for a part in your new movie. Prehistoric Cave Women of the Planet Hooter is the fourth in the series, isn't it?" She drew her shoulders inward, producing another full inch of cleavage, native British accent thickening seductively. "Don't you think I'd look positively scrumptious in a leather tunic?"  
  
"I'm sure you'd even look scrumptious in nothing at all," Straker returned so dryly that Nancy Ealand coughed over a laugh and even Miss Frankl couldn't miss the sarcasm. "However, I'm not doing the hiring for ... er ... Prehistoric Cave Women Part 4." He shuddered delicately; he'd actually had to watch footage from the second sequel, and hadn't managed to recover his self-respect. Having a sense of humor might help, he admitted frankly, envying his best friend Alec Freeman the luxury. "If you're looking for work, have your agent submit a request to the Director, Carl Mason. You'll excuse me."  
  
He was through the sliding doors to his office even before they had fully opened, depositing the briefcase on the polished desk with a relieved sigh. He'd faced enemy pilots, aliens in inter-planetary war, Senate and United Nations' committees and angry superiors, but nothing affected him as badly as did the distasteful manipulations of the film industry.  
  
He waited until the doors had slid securely shut before picking up the silver cigarette case on his desk and opening the lid. "Straker," he snapped loudly despite the fact that the sensitive microphone would have picked up the barest whisper. A computer generated voice responded instantly,  
  
"Voice identification positive. Commander Straker."  
  
The title coaxed a smile out of fine, elegant lips. The room moved smoothly on oiled gears, dropping him eighty feet in a matter of seconds, then the door opened again of its own accord, admitting him to the military command structure of SHADO HQ. Straker breathed deeply, absorbing the very essence of the complex; this was his element and his life, and had been since he'd seen his first U.F.O. fifteen years ago, when he and British astronaut Craig Collins were flying top secret missions in NASA's space shuttle.  
  
"Good morning, Commander."  
  
"Commander Straker."  
  
"Hello, Commander."  
  
Straker acknowledged the greetings of the day crew with a curt nod, flowing through the collection of white-uniformed men and catsuited women with barely a glance, inured by now to the ordered efficiency of his team. Only the best and brightest worked for SHADO, most of these people having been with him over five years; when the only way to resign from a highly secure organization consisted of death or, in rare occurrences, complete personality erasure, one didn't tend toward a high employee turnover.  
  
He strode from the elevator/office past the spiderweb of corridors criss- crossing the sprawling complex, to the command hub, stopping beside a console manned by a nondescript man of thirty. "Anything going on, Ford?"  
  
The man exchanged a look with a dark-haired girl on his right, then jerked his head toward the office to his rear. "The photos Sky-1 took over the Pole yesterday are ready, Sir. Colonels Freeman, Lake and Foster are waiting for you."  
  
Straker brightened interestedly, studio unpleasantness already forgotten. "Excellent! Carry on, Lieutenant." He made his way up the single step, double doors sliding open to admit him to the circular chamber that served as his personal Lair. There three disparate individuals waited in a cluster around his desk; they straightened respectfully at his appearance. "Judging by your expressions, am I to understand Sky-1 sent something interesting back?"  
  
The youngest of the three nodded at once. He was a confident young man in his late twenties, a half-inch taller than Straker and as leanly muscled. The boyish face was deliberately impassive under the thatch of longish brown hair, but too naturally open to hide the eagerness in his blue eyes. "We received the laser transmissions only a few hours ago. I think you'll find the footage interesting."  
  
"Interesting, Paul?" Straker quoted, eyebrow rising again in what was to him an expression of extreme humor. "More interesting than seeing another Ufo ..." He'd quickly adapted the British habit of slurring the initials into one word. "... disintegrate under Sky-1's missile?"  
  
The young man's mouth quirked on one side. "Nearly as interesting, perhaps, sir."  
  
"More than interesting, certainly, Colonel Foster," a cool female voice corrected. "This could very well provide us with vital data." Straker paused mid-step to meet the heavily-made-up eyes of Colonel Virginia Lake, chief designer of the eutronics based sensor equipment incorporated into all of SHADO's long-range monitors. What was less widely known was that she was also one of the designers of the hydrogen cooled A.I.S.C.G. -- Artificial Intelligence Sensor and Cybernetics Grid -- that provided ninety percent of SHADO's computing and surveillance capabilities. Looking no older than the 28-year old Foster though she was seven years his senior, 'Ginnie' Lake was a sculptured ice princess, poised and unflappable as Straker himself. With shoulder length platinum hair framing china doll features, and a figure rounded perfectly in all the right spots, she was considered by the staff to be the most beautiful member of the SHADO team. Unlike Straker, she used her looks as a weapon, plying her sexuality as a persuader when it suited her needs, but not unless. "If you'll check the photographs, sir, I think you'll see why."  
  
Straker left his briefcase on a visitor's chair in the corner and approached the desk, stepping around the third man in the room. His greeting was another nod; he didn't have to look to know the expression that would be decorating the man's hawk-like face, or the twinkle that lit Alexander Freeman's sharp brown eyes. They had been friends nearly twenty years now, co-workers at SHADO since its inception.  
  
Freeman stepped aside to allow him access to the desk. Unlike Foster, who admired and imitated his commander's impassivity, there was no pretense of stoicism on his craggy features, the Welshman's temperment being as different from Straker's as the proverbial fire was from ice. "We got something, Ed," Freeman exclaimed, stabbing his forefinger at the photos littering the desk "This time we've really got something. Sky-1 took these shots over northern Greenland."  
  
He turned it around until Straker could see a black-and-white representation of the arctic icepack broken regularly by upthrusts of volcanic rock. Straker accepted the picture, large blue eyes scanning it in a flash. "That volcano still active?"  
  
Freeman shook his head. "Not since the time of the first Viking explorers. They called it 'Heimdal's Horn.'"  
  
"Heimdal?" Foster asked, a frown creasing his dark brows.  
  
The question was clearly intended to be rhetorical, but the older pilot treated it as genuine. "Heimdal," he began in a hearty voice, "was the guardian of the bridge Bifrost into Asgard. When he tooted his horn it meant there was a battle brewing." He jerked his head at Straker. "The glacier you're looking at sources about twenty miles to the north."  
  
Straker traced the long gray line barely visible against the white, freezing on the rounded blob in the lower corner. "What's that dark spot?"  
  
Freeman winked at a visibly excited Foster. "Told you he was a quick study, didn't I? That, my old friend, is the question."  
  
Lake handed him a second, larger photo, this one gridded as a series of reds, blues and purples. "This is the same image computer enhanced along thermal and magnetic lines. Notice particularly the purple magnetic. From all indications we have--"  
  
"A Ufo," Straker finished, startled into revealing a modicum of the pleasure he was feeling. "A Ufo frozen in the ice!"  
  
"Right on the money!" Freeman crowed, slapping the desk with an open palm. "According to our geologists, that glacier was split wide only a few days ago by a slow moving, underground magma flow. They estimate the age of that ice at 2,000-plus years."  
  
"A preserved U.F.O.," Straker murmured with satisfaction. "If we get there soon enough, we might be able to actually enter a Ufo before Earth's atmosphere turns it to space dust."  
  
"We'll have to be quick about it." Foster took a step closer, folding his hands behind his back in a military parade rest. "The closeups are showing tips of it rather clearly. It's possible it was exposed to atmosphere by that last uprising, and that was nearly twelve hours ago; if so, it could disintigrate at any time."  
  
"Photos. Tests. We'll finally be able to study their space technology!" Freeman scratched his pointed chin. "I assume you want to leave immediately, Commander?"  
  
"Sooner," Straker snapped with a touch of good humor. "Can we reach the site by air?"  
  
"Not possible, sir." Straker cocked a brow at Virginia Lake's interruption, one hand automatically hitching his white slacks up at the knees, allowing him to sit. "Meteorology reports high winds blowing off those mountains -- too high for a helicopter."  
  
"VTOL?" the American suggested hopefully.  
  
She shook her head. "The area is highly volcanic -- saturated with underground magma pools. The ice pack can't be trusted to support the weight of any aircraft heavy enough to withstand the high-velocity gusts."  
  
"She's right, Commander." Paul Foster tugged at the bottom of his maroon tunic until it hung millemetrically straight from the strong shoulders down past his lean waist; the new styles suited him as well as they did Straker. "Our geologists recommend the use of only our lightest mobiles within a ten mile radius of target."  
  
Straker considered, feeling uncharacteristic excitement welling within. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for -- the chance to learn something new about the enemy he'd fought so tenaciously for the past decade and longer. "Prepare snowcats gamma, delta and zeta for transport; have the volcanologists and terrain specialists plot an overland course to the Ufo from the closest landing site possible. Alec, see to the arrangements; you'll accompany me in Mobile gamma."  
  
"All right! Time to see if all that cold weather survival training the RAF spent on me was worth the money. ... Not that I'm hoping we'll need it," Freeman amended quickly, rubbing his hands together as though cold. "As to additional personnel, I can suggest Lieutenant Ali Mehdi and Captain Peggy Chapman as part of the field crew." Freeman rattled off the names, ticking them one-by-one on his fingers. "They're checked out highest ratings in the light mobiles, and both have an engineering background. Jocko Duval's degree is in astrophysics, and...." He was interrupted by a chirp from the radio on the desk.  
  
"Commander?"  
  
Straker pushed a button. "Yes, Ford?"  
  
"Communique from Moonbase, sir. They're advising us of an imminent communications interruption. Solar activity is on the rise, projected time of intermittant microwave blackout forty-eight hours. They'll be on emergency laser frequency Mu-thirty-seven in event of sighting."  
  
Annoyance tightened Straker's smooth features then was gone. "That'll knock out radio for the mobiles, too. We'll need to maintain visual contact via satellite. Colonel Lake?"  
  
"I'll take care of it, sir."  
  
Straker nodded. "Who else did you have in mind for the mission, Alec?"  
  
Foster shuffled his feet, the desire to volunteer plain on his lips. As the youngest and newest in SHADO's top command echelons, the priviledge of discovery should have belonged to another with more seniority, Colonel John Grey, perhaps, or even Virginia Lake, with her cybernetics experience. But Straker had come to know the young man quite well over the past year and a half and could easily read the barely restrained eagerness beneath the military stance; besides, he'd grown to respect the boy's highly developed combat instincts and the fierce loyalty that had placed those instincts staunchly on Straker's side. With equal perception, Freeman noticed it too, mischief sparking in his eyes. "How about Foster, here? You're pretty good at land combat, aren't you, Paul?" he asked innocuously, winning a hastily restrained, grateful smile.  
  
"I manage, Colonel."  
  
As Executive Officer, Alec was more familiar with the human resources than anyone in the organization, and the Commander bowed to his judgement without hesitation. "Personnel approved. Colonel Lake, you'll take over here. With possible communications disruption, satellite surveilance will be all you have to monitor our progress."  
  
If Lake was disappointed at being excluded from the exploration, it didn't show on her lovely features. "No problem there, sir," she replied tonelessly, brilliant mind already lightyears ahead of the problem. "I'm going to divert SID's tertiary camera mounting earthward; when static orbit takes it out of view, we'll switch to the Russian SpySat-4. I'll have Ford inform the Commissar."  
  
It didn't occur to Straker to question how or why Virginia Lake had memorized the paths of every satellite in that particular orbit; her efficiency rating was the highest in his command. "Very good, Colonel. Gentlemen? Are we waiting for something?"  
  
Foster and Freeman exchanged a smile and the doubled, "No, sir."  
  
"Then get going." Straker rested his palms flat on the desk. "We leave for Greenland in two hours."  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
Designed for rapid deployment, it was only four hours later that three fully enclosed, caterpillar treaded vehicles were crossing the icesheet of northern Greenland toward the ancient lava flow known as Heimdal's Horn. Topologists had worked with volcanologists, geologists and other specialists to plot the safest if not the most direct route to the U.F.O. crash site; thanks to the unstable terrain, air transport had dropped them fifteen miles from target, though their course took them much farther as it wound around seismic upheavels, some millions of years old, some no more than hours. The landscape was barren, naked rock jutting above frozen, blue-white wastes, as lifeless and inhumane as the surface of the moon itself.  
  
Commander Edward Straker and Colonel Alec E. Freeman were bundled in the front seats of Mobile gamma, the firstmost in a caravan of three. Smaller than the heavily armored tanks SHADO usually employed on such assignments, gamma was closer in conception to the traditional snowcat, and every bit as agile. Freeman held the wheel in the dual control vehicle, guiding the tractors across ice crusted invisible paths and singing a mildly bawdy Welsh drinking song in a not-unpleasant off-key baritone. Straker, navigating in the left hand 'shotgun' position, sat hunched over a selection of terrain charts in his lap. A frown bisected his light brows, marring his otherwise perfectly smooth features.  
  
"You'd better steer clear of that boulder," he advised, tapping the windshield in the direction of a jutting finger of granite that stood nearly four stories high. "According to our volcanologist ..."  
  
"Chong," Freeman supplied, graciously interrupting his concert.  
  
"... Chong, there's an underground magma pool located in that general area. It could have softened the icepack enough to sink us."  
  
"You have us a new course?" Freeman glanced at the global satellite locator display on his forward monitor. A touch of a button narrowed the viewing field, an arrow serving as a 'You Are Here' indicator. "Doesn't look like we have too wide a margin; a couple of thousand meters port and we fringe the Louman Crevasse."  
  
White-blond hair stirred slightly at Straker's nod. "Keep us bearing four degrees to port of present position until we reach those hills. If we stay on this ridge, we should be able to make it nearly all the way without having to trust the solidity of the ice."  
  
"Roger." The Welsh pilot/intelligence officer turned the steering wheel in the desired direction, keeping one eye on the gyrocompass next to the screen. "That puts us about two hours away at present speed."  
  
Straker folded the charts neatly, then unzipped his light blue parka to the waist. "I wish we could have used choppers instead of the mobiles. If that Ufo was exposed to the air in that last upheaval, it could be space dust by the time we get there."  
  
"Nothing we can do about it," his companion returned reasonably. "It's a miracle the alien ship was located at all. If we make it in time to explore, fine; if not, we're no worse off than we were before."  
  
"And no better," Straker snapped, extracting a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket. "Blast it, Alec, we've been fighting a holding battle for ten years; we're do for a break." He tapped out a smoke, head cocking when Freeman began to whistle. "Must you do that?"  
  
"Do what? Regale you with my melodies?" SHADO's Executive Officer shot his old friend a mischievous glance. "D'ya mean you're not a music lover, Ed?"  
  
"When I hear music," the other returned irritably, "I'll let you know."  
  
Far too long inured to his commander's brusque moods to be offended, Freeman watched out of the corner of his eye while the blond next extracted a match and lit up. "Don't have a cigar in one of those pockets, I suppose?" he hinted hopefully.  
  
"Cigarettes this time out." He proffered one from the pack, which was accepted.  
  
"Any port in a storm." Freeman held the tip of the smoke against Straker's match and puffed it to life. His hawk-like face was relaxed, his approach to potential risk less obviously intense than Straker's, though both were equally as alert. "Any guess as to how a Ufo got trapped in an ice pack?" he asked, obediently locking on a relevant subject.  
  
Smoke wafted upward in spirals, the cigarette being utilized as a short, white pointer. "I had Colonel Lake run computer sims on that before we left. The scenario with the highest probability rating started with a critical reentry glide. If the Ufo entered atmosphere too steeply, it might not have bled off enough velocity to prevent a crash. It might have slammed into the ice pack, been trapped and buried for centuries."  
  
"Possible." Freeman stuck his own cigarette in his mouth, using his free hand to brush back a lock of wavy brown hair off his forehead. "The alien might have been going for an ocean landing and miscalculated his approach; they tend to come in at a steeper descent angle if they aren't planning a landfall."  
  
Straker rubbed his hands together, an excited flush tingeing his pale skin. "Just think, Alec, we'll have access to alien technology at last. Not just twisted metal and decomposing bodies, but an entire starship."  
  
"Which could be thousands of years old, if our boys have estimated the age of the ice correctly," Freeman pointed out, glancing upward at the slate gray sky. "Their technology could have changed considerably since then."  
  
"The ship looked the same." Straker bit his lip, brow furrowing even further. "If so.... Do you realize what this could mean, Alec?"  
  
Freeman scratched his long nose. "Yes, unfortunately. It means they've been visiting our planet a lot longer than we've estimated. I shudder to think how many human bodies they've cannibalized over the centuries."  
  
Straker looked startled at that, the concept apparently having not occurred to him. "I was referring to their technology. If we see no significant development over that long a period, it could mean their technology is stagnating - the strongest sign of a decaying civilization. It could even be crumbling."  
  
SHADO's Executive Officer considered this, brown eyes narrowed. "Possible. Unfortunately, it took the Roman Empire nearly a millennium to crumble after the beginning of its decline; I prefer not to wait for it to happen naturally."  
  
"I agree." The beamed-in satellite map broke into a series of colored lines before reforming fuzzier than before. "Looks like that solar storm is getting worse. There's probably quite an aurora borealis behind all those clouds." There was a beep from the console, and the blond picked up a microphone, tuning a scrambled frequency. "Straker."  
  
"SHADO Control here," came the cool, dulcet voice of Virginia Lake. She paused, a burst of static breaking up the transmission for several seconds, then resumed when the air was clear. "Solar activity has risen twenty-four percent in the last half-hour, sir. Communications are expected to be sporadic at best until it clears, estimated time of disruption seven hours, fourteen minutes."  
  
"Do you still have us on satellite surveillance?" Straker asked, visibly unflustered by the possibility of being out of touch that long.  
  
Lake paused, a murmur coming off-mike as she consulted with someone else. "We do have a problem in that area, sir. Thanks to multiple coronal eruptions, the atmosphere is becoming highly ionized, particularly at your latitude. Thermal and magnetic scanners are distorting. We still have you on visual, but Meteorology is reporting a developing squall in your area, which could alter that at any time."  
  
"The sky is getting pretty overcast," Freeman commented from the side.  
  
Having overheard, Lake replied at once. "Acknowledged. We estimate another hour before you're hidden completely from SpySat. Do you wish to abort mission?"  
  
The snowcat rocked when Freeman steered several degrees to the south to avoid a suspicious dip in the snow; inherently stable, it realigned on its center of gravity within seconds. "Without sat-recon and backup, we're out here on our own," he pointed out, fighting the wheel back to its original course. "You want to turn back? Maybe try again tomorrow?"  
  
Thin lips pinched together resolutely. "If that Ufo is exposed to atmosphere, we've got a twenty-four to thirty-six hour window before it disintegrates. We're looking at the only chance we may ever get." He lifted one shoulder fractionally in assumed nonchalance. "We've got our course marked out already, and SkyDiver is standing by in case we need aerial support."  
  
"Won't do us much good if we fall into a hole," Freeman muttered though not in argument.  
  
Straker frowned at him anyway. "Is SID reporting any long-range alerts?" he asked into the microphone.  
  
"Negative, sir. All clear through the outer planets." Lake paused again before asking in knowing tones, "Shall we assume the mission proceeds, Commander?"  
  
Straker's unyielding features softened with a half-smile. "You know me well, Virginia. The mission proceeds." He switched off and glanced at an amused Freeman. "What's so funny, Alec?"  
  
The other man waved his cigarette generally. "Ginnie's getting to know us both far too well. I'm beginning to suspect telepathic abilities."  
  
"Ginnie, huh?" Straker eyed his friend suspiciously. "You sound like you're getting to know Colonel Lake pretty well yourself."  
  
The modest shrug was somehow just a bit incongruent with the mischievous twinkle that entered Freeman's sharp brown eyes. "Let's just say we've been getting on rather ... closely of late. Very closely, indeed."  
  
That provoked a full stare. "I thought Colonel Lake and Colonel Foster...."  
  
"You're way behind the times, Ed. That's what comes of leaving all personnel affairs ... so to speak ... to your Executive Officer. That's me," he added, smiling graciously.  
  
The double entendre was not lost on the blond. Straker lifted his cigarette high, watching the smoke ascend in a more or less horizontal line. "So fill me in. How long have you been dating ... er ... Ginnie?"  
  
"Four or five weeks now. She dropped Paul almost two months ago."  
  
"She dropped him, or he dropped her?" Straker prodded, growing actually intrigued enough to engage in the rare occasion of social gossip. "Look, Alec, you aren't serious about her, are you? You know her profile mentions a tendency to play the field pretty heavily. Look how fast she dropped Paul."  
  
Freeman laughed. "I'm well aware of her profile. She'll dally with the young ones awhile, then move on without a backward glance. The closest she's had to a long term relationship in the past five years was with Craig Collins."  
  
"Who is dead," the blond pointed out, expression going closed.  
  
Apology crossed Freeman face then was gone; the subject of Straker's old friend was still a sensitive one. "After Craig died, Ginnie spent a little time with Paul while they were both doing two weeks on Moonbase, and moved on as soon as she made Earthside." He paused, deliberating his next words, the apology returning in full force. "That reminds me, I saw Mary Sunday, at Concorde Ristaurante."  
  
Straker glanced at him sharply then away, the mention of his ex-wife a sharp, hastily buried pain. "Did you?" he asked, drawing heavily on his cigarette. "How was she?"  
  
Several monitors blipped on the forward console, two of them labeled 'Com unit' going red, one monitor winking out. Freeman focussed on them as a way of avoiding looking in his friend's direction. "She didn't speak to me, and I didn't intrude. But she was looking good. Still quite beautiful."  
  
"She would be," the blond murmured, sky blue eyes focussing inwardly for a brief instant. "Was she alone?"  
  
"No."  
  
Silence draped them several tense seconds, then Straker sighed and, in an obvious attempt at changing the subject, asked in a brighter tone, "And who were you with? Colonel Lake?"  
  
That won a full grin. "Told you we were getting to know each other rather well."  
  
Straker shook his head, smiling fondly at his friend, who winked. "How did Paul take it?" he asked, the smile shifting into a frown. "Casual relationships are part of Virginia's psych profile, but not his."  
  
Freeman took a last puff, then dropped his cigarette to the floor, stubbing it out with his bootheel. "Don't worry about Paul Foster; I'm rather fond of him myself, you know." Irrepressible good humor peeking through, he tugged at the neck of his blue wool turtleneck, Welsh accent thickening. "Actually, it's my breaking heart you should be worrying about. Paul is young; he'll bounce back a lot quicker than us oldsters."  
  
Straker shot him an offended scowl. "Speak for yourself, Gramps. I'm not ready for a rocking chair yet."  
  
Both hands left the wheel in an open armed wave, returning to it immediately when the snowcat careened to the right. "All I meant was, Paul's a tough boy. He'll get over it."  
  
"Like us?" Straker asked vaguely, mind obviously many miles and many years away.  
  
"If he isn't already, he will be. Youth is the one thing you tend to outgrow. Besides, if he survived Ginnie Lake, he'll survive anything."  
  
Blue eyes focussed on the Exec, a bare trace of the mischief that had once seasoned Ed Straker's personality peeking through. "Paul might, but will you, considering your advanced years?"  
  
"I'm old enough to know better," Freeman returned modestly, "and far too young to care."  
  
But even that amount of humor faded from SHADO's Commander; his scowl returned, computer fast mind already running worst-case scenarios on the situation now that it was brought strikingly to the fore. "I can't say I approve of Colonel Lake's flirtations. It's bad for morale."  
  
"Not my morale," Freeman objected, pressing one hand to the front of his brown jacket. "It's never been better."  
  
He caught Straker's eye, the two bursting out in a short laugh over the sheer absurdity. "All right, Alec," the American relented after a moment. "You're a better judge than I am in the matter ... maybe. But if this continues, I'm going to have a talk with Miss Lake about office relationships." The satellite map flickered again and went out; Straker glared at it, then plucked the microphone from its hook and activated the preset frequency to the other mobiles. "Gamma to Mobiles zeta and delta."  
  
"Foster here, sir," came the immediate reply, followed by a woman's voice saying,  
  
"Mobile delta. Chapman."  
  
"This is Straker. Solar activity is rising; we can expect even local communications to be unreliable."  
  
"Mission is still go, sir?" a Jamaican accented male asked loudly from off- mike.  
  
Straker nodded invisibly to his listeners. "Still go. We're not going to let a little bad weather prevent us from taking advantage of this situation. That doesn't mean we have to be reckless. I want each mobile to maintain visual contact at all times. We can't afford to get lost when or if that storm breaks."  
  
The acknowledgements were immediate. Straker rehung the mike and leaned back against his leather seat, depositing his cigarette stub in an ashtray. "That's it. Barring unforeseen circumstances, we're committed."  
  
Relaxed before the action started and visibly enjoying himself, Freeman nodded. "Nice to hunt a Ufo that isn't hunting us back."  
  
"I'll believe that when I see it." The Commander tugged at the collar of his heavy black sweater, releasing a strand of blond hair. "And do we need that much heat? It's a steambox in here."  
  
"You can be jolly well grateful we've got heat at all," the other retorted, making no actual objection when Straker turned the blower down. He tapped a gauge on the panel approximately halfway between both men. "External temperature is eighteen below, winds gusting up to forty knots. Not a place I'd choose for holiday."  
  
The inhospitable exterior did nothing to dampen the intensity with which Straker regarded the outside world. A spark of eagerness lighting his characteristically impassive face, he leaned forward, propping himself against the cool glass and staring into the heavy clouds. "We're not here for a holiday, Alec. We're here to win a war."  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
"Really boo-te-ful, mon! That black hair ... and I could get lost following those legs." Lieutenant Jocko Duval, Jamaican born and bred, lifted his hand from Mobile zeta's steering to adjust a dial on the fuel panel, then tapped his companion on the right knee. "You work with her, boy-o; you think you could put in a good word wid Lieutenant Johnson for me? If you catch my drift."  
  
"Put in a word?" Former Royal Air Force pilot Paul Foster snorted, brushing away his friend's hand with a light swat. "You've known Ayshea a good bit longer than I have -- she's worked for SHADO almost six years now. Why don't you ask her yourself?"  
  
Duval sighed dramatically and pressed both hands to his heart, then had to make a quick snatch when the treacherous ice dissolved under the snowcat's treads. "Me tongue don't work around her, mon frer," he said, fighting the vehicle back onto course. "Turns right to mush, it do. Don't have de cool style you London boys do."  
  
"If you knew the so-called style of the parts of London I grew up in, you'd be asking someone else." Foster's dark blue eyes scanned the sky ahead of them even as he zipped his jacket tighter around his throat. Each movement he made was smooth and controlled, the results of many hours spent either in the gymnasium or in simulated combat. "Besides," he went on with a wry smile, "I haven't had much success on the romantic score myself lately. Might make a mess of it for you."  
  
Jocko tsk'd, shaking his head pityingly. "We heard about that. Dat Colonel Lake, she threw you over quick, did she? Guess it was good while it lasted, eh? If you catch my drift."  
  
The younger pilot stared at him. "You're awfully blasé about it. I might have been in love with her for all you know."  
  
"In love? After ten days with only chat-chat on Moonbase?" It was Jocko's turn to stare. "Colonel Lake, she be what we like to call Hot Stuff, boy- o, but she not the type to go the long term, if you catch my drift."  
  
Foster muttered something, repeating it louder at his friend's request. "I said, I wonder why Colonel Grey even bothered to run a computer sim on us as a couple. He must have known she was only looking for a replacement when she thought her lover was dead."  
  
"Wonder if he done run one on her and Colonel Freeman," Duval suggested tactlessly, cutting his eyes in Foster's direction. The younger man flushed, relapsing into a semi-sullen silence at the remark. Duval chuckled softly and backslapped his companion on the arm. "Come on, old son, everybody know about it. Just like everybody know about Gay Ellis and Mark Bradley. There be no secrets in this secret organization."  
  
"What're we running," Foster grumbled, hunching a little lower in his seat, "a military organization or a bloody soap opera."  
  
"No need to be sensitive; de older woman never work out long for de younger man. And we all got de girls we want to forget." Duval leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Or get a chance to know better? If you ban catch me drift?"  
  
Not temperamentally capable of holding a snit for long, and not having been in love with Virginia Lake anyway for all that his ego had been bruised at having been thrown over so quickly, Paul had to laugh at his friend's words. "I'm asking you again, Jocko, why don't you talk to Ayshea yourself? You don't really expect me to believe that clap-trap about your being tongue tied, do you?"  
  
White teeth flashed against light brown skin in an delighted grin. "Can't fool you, can I? All right, so maybe I did try to talk to the good Lieutenant and got ..."  
  
"... shot down." That evoked another smile, boyish and nearly as rare as one of Straker's own. Paul Foster was a generally quiet and somber young man, and where his responsibilities were concerned, a humorless professional; more, rank placed a solid wedge between himself and most of the staff in his age bracket. Despite all this he'd found a rare, easy rapport with Jocko Duval, one that had grown since nearly his first day in astro-training with this man as his teacher. He stood, slipping between the seats and making his way aft toward the auxiliary lockers. "I brought a thermos; want a cuppa?"  
  
Duval waved his negative and Foster helped himself, then returned to the leather upholstered seat. "What makes you think Lieutenant Johnson would listen to me if she didn't you?" he asked, sipping the steaming brew. "We're friendly but not friends."  
  
"You underestimate yourself, me boy." A tread climbed a hidden rocky ridge, tilting the mobile precariously to one side. It righted itself with a thud, dropping both men heavily eight full inches; Foster cursed and dabbed coffee off his black trousers. "Ayshea with de bedroom eyes, she go for the rank," Duval went on, passing him a handkerchief. "And you, me boy, be a full Colonel, while I ..." He tapped his blue jacketed chest. "... am only a lowly Lieutenant after all these years of faithful service."  
  
"You talk like you've been here a thousand years," the Londoner chided; Jocko Duval was only thirty-five. "And I started off in SHADO as a Colonel from the Air Force Reservists. My training and experience suited SHADO's immediate needs as part of its command structure."  
  
"You quoting that from that policy book again," his friend jeered good naturedly, patently unimpressed. "And why you looking so smug about it, anyway?" Foster grinned; he was proud of his rank. "Test pilots, dey get all the glory," Duval continued mournfully. "And the rank get the girls."  
  
Full lips parted as though he would go on for some time, causing Foster to throw both hands up. "All right, I give up. I'll ask Lieutenant Johnson if she'll go out with you." He gulped the rest of his coffee, offering the black man a fish eye. "With that manipulative tongue of yours, you'll probably end up on the wrong end of a court marshal some day, Jocko."  
  
"You been that route, too, boy-o," the Jamaican replied mildly, scowling at the single small snowflake that plastered itself against the windscreen. "And after only a few months past mah training. Didn't think you were going to make it to your first paycheck much less command back then."  
  
Foster repressed a shudder at the reminder. "That was over a year ago," he reminded the other, running a hand through his longish hair. "A lifetime ago."  
  
"And you become Commander's favorite right after the hot seat, if you catch me drift. Not bad."  
  
"If you don't cut it out," the younger man warned, waving one fist under Duval's nose, "it'll be your turn in the hot seat. Catch my drift?"  
  
The black man grinned unrepentently but obediently changed the subject. "How 'bout you hand Jocko some of that food you got stashed, boy-o. We got something good for once?"  
  
Foster felt under his seat, dragging out a small red tin. "Protein bars and packets of apple juice. Not much to choose from." He passed across one of each, and deposited his now empty cup before returning the tin to its niche. "Not 'C' rations, at least."  
  
Duval tore open the protein bar packet with his teeth, wolfing half of it in one bite. "You not hungry?" he asked between swallows.  
  
Duplicates of the original satellite photos lay scattered on the pull-down ledge to their left; Foster turned his attention to them, answering the other man with an absent lift of one shoulder. "Never eat much on a mission. Always ravenous afterward, though."  
  
Duval nodded, devoting his attention to chewing for five long minutes, until the communicator beeped and they had received Straker's message. He waited until they'd heard the sign-off then tossed his wrappers to the side and plucked the mike from Foster's fingers, resetting the frequency with his thumb. "You get that, delta?" he hailed the third mobile, which trailed them by seventy yards. "Peg? Ali?"  
  
"Peg, here, Jocko," British Navy Captain Chapman replied from the last mobile. "Roger, that. We go ahead." Static drowned out several words and she had to repeat them. "Sounds like communications are going down after all. Bet there's a lovely aurora overhead past the clouds."  
  
"Probably so. Not that you two be missing much conversation-wise. Our Colonel Foster is just here complaining about his rank."  
  
"What's he want, to be General?" the fourth and final member of the squad asked in a heavy bass powerful enough to be heard over the mounting static. Lieutenant Mehdi was from the Saudi Republic, and was a close friend of Jocko's, as was Chapman. The three had been members of SHADO for a long time, and teamed often. "The boy don't know when he's well off. Generals do nothing but paperwork."  
  
"Behind a nice, warm desk," Chapman added with a throaty chuckle. "Maybe Colonel Foster knows what he's doing after all."  
  
In a great show of analysis, Duval examined his companion up and down. "I be picturing him as a General. Captain Chapman, you see our boy-Colonel as a General?"  
  
"You mean bald and pot-bellied?" the woman returned promptly. "Goodness. We'll end up with another General Henderson on the roster."  
  
Foster's right hand automatically went to his flat stomach. Proud of both his lean physique and boyish looks, he couldn't help but be amused at the good-natured teasing. "You three are using airtime for personal conversation," he reminded them nonetheless, regulations and military protocol ever to be considered.  
  
"Just need to tell them to move in another hundred feet," Duval said, also a professional for all his jesting. "Do you have a lock on my running lights, delta?"  
  
"Visual lock confirmed, zeta," Ali returned crisply. "We'll follow you all the way in."  
  
"Out." Duval handed the microphone back to Foster, who rehung it. "See, boy-o, all military and ship-shape, just like me gran'fadder used to say."  
  
"Your accent comes and goes like a bad cold, Jocko," Foster pointed out by way of revenge.  
  
Rich laughter filled the small compartment, Duval's dark eyes flashing merrily. "Part of me charm, boy-o!" A comfortable silence fell between them for awhile, during which each concentrated on their individual duties. It wasn't long before the white flakes began to fall in volume, small and crystalline. Duval closed the distance to the lead snowcat, gaze firmly set on the red running lights. "You think maybe the Commander is right in going on in this? We be looking at a white-out condition pretty soon."  
  
"Commander Straker knows what he's doing," Foster replied stoutly, innate loyalty bringing the words almost without thought. "We've got SkyDiver standing by in case we're attacked, and two or three satellites watching our every move. Not bad support team, eh?  
  
As if on cue the satellite linked map winked and went out. "Not good if none of dem can get to us," Duval remarked, mood growing more taut with the changing circumstances. "And we be now officially cut off. Let's just hope dese snowcats are as good as deh manufacturer claim. This boy grew up in the tropics."  
  
"The East End isn't exactly Alaska."  
  
One hour later they were entering an area no Eskimo would have dared traverse. What terrain could be seen through the blowing snow was even more rocky than before, pressure ridges and old magma flows dividing the ice covered landscape. Their route was even more circuitous than before, winding over glaciers and around moderately sized mountains at a steady four miles an hour. "We're getting close," Foster reported, ardently studying the hard copy charts open in his lap. "The Ufo should be just around that ridge."  
  
"You think that blob on the photos really is a frozen Ufo?" Duval asked, guiding the tractor closer to the lead one when a wind-driven burst of snow temporarily obscured it from view.  
  
Fine drawn lips quirked on one side, irrepressible enthusiasm rising in dark blue eyes. "Straker thinks so. I haven't seen him this pleased about something in months."  
  
"Not since his son die last year," Duval added with genuine sympathy for their hardbitten commander. "You didn't know him well back when that happen, did you?"  
  
Foster looked up from the laser xeroxed photo he was studying, regarding his friend inquiringly. "I was still pretty new at the time. He seemed to handle things well -- better than I would have, I think."  
  
"Seemed to," Duval agreed. "With Straker it never easy to tell." He made a palm up gesture. "He's due for a break -- we all are. We bin fighting dis lousy war a long time."  
  
That won a sharp glance. "You sound tired, Jocko."  
  
"Sometimes." White teeth flashed again. "Traipsing through a Ufo should rejuvenate dis old bird, eh?" He stiffened and leaned forward as the snowcat circled the indicated ridge, entering what appeared to be a shallow, bowl-shaped valley half enclosing the largest glacier they'd seen so far. "Wait! There it--"  
  
There was no warning. One minute they were looking at the silhouette of an upthrust piece of metal, barely visible through the blowing snow; the next they were gaping in the aftermath of a nova bright burst of purple light. A dull roar emanated from behind them, shaking the ground and rocking even the stable snowcat. Dazzled, they blinked several times, clearing flare dazzled vision. "What happened?" Duval asked, staring hard out the window. "Did the Ufo destruct?"  
  
"Not bloody likely," Paul snapped grimly, hands already reaching for the mobile's weapons controls. "That was delta that went up; the Ufo is still active!" A second laser flared in front of them, missing their own mobile only by virtue of Duval's quick maneuvering. "Can you get me a firing angle on the Ufo?"  
  
"We try, mon," Duval returned, fighting the snowcat as it skidded off course toward a hidden slope under the snow. "Seems like he can see us, but we can't see him." A ruby muzzle-flash shattered the murky surroundings as Straker's barely seen mobile returned fire; violet again stabbed out, the alien retargeting on the skewing gamma. "Are they hit?" Duval yelped, bringing the mobile into a straight course.  
  
"Can't tell." Foster targeted their single 20mm forward cannon to the extreme of its shallow arc capacity, pressing several switches on the arms console. "We need an accurate bearing on the Ufo. Radar targeting won't lock in."  
  
"We can't even see it from here," Duval pointed out alarmedly. "Sunspots are messing up the E-M all across the spectrum, and the snow is too heavy for visual."  
  
The younger pilot struggled to his feet, grabbing the seat for balance against the rocking snowcat, as Duval continued to dodge the extra- terrestrial lightning bolts that were now evenly distributed between their own mobile and Straker's. "I'm going aloft," he declared, snatching up a headphone. "The extra height should increase my range of view. I'll radio you targeting instructions from up there."  
  
"Better hurry," his companion replied, casting him a single, intense glance. "I think the alien is getting a bearing on us."  
  
It was a struggle to climb the metal ladder against the inner wall to the tiny round turret atop the vehicle. Paul twisted open the hatch, balancing himself against the side of the vehicle and shivering in the blast of sub- zero air that caught him full in the face. He drew up the hood of his down- filled parka and pulled on his gloves, squinting against the wind whipped snow. Even from this vantage, the uneven topography blocked much of the hollow though the glacier itself rose as a blue wall from the opposing end. "Still too low," he yelled into the headmike. "I'm going out onto the hull."  
  
It was tricky climbing out onto the ice-coated metal, the zig-zag course nearly sliding him off the vehicle altogether. He lowered his body onto the rounded turret itself, and locked the fingers of one hand in the hatch wheel. His free hand came up to shield his eyes from the blowing snow, thus giving him a clear view of the ominous metallic, circular shape against ancient ice.  
  
"Retarget bearing seventeen degrees," he called into the throat mike in a powerful voice. "Range one hundred fifty yards."  
  
The snowcat skewed to the side again as Duval obeyed the instructions. From above, Foster was now looking directly down the deceptively spindly barrel of the enemy weapon. He squinted when Duval fired the forward cannon; snow absorbed much of the dull boom of the explosives, and red spattered off the alien vessel. Through the brief window of vaporized water, dark scorch marks were visible on the alien alloy. "Got it!" he cheered, clenching his fist when the feat was repeated by the forward mobile. "Continue fire!"  
  
Again the cannon roared, this time disintegrating a small section of both ice and vessel; the scene was now brightly lit, illuminated by the red muzzle flares of the mobiles' cannons, the impact of high explosives on alien alloy, and the continued violet laserlight of enemy weaponry. "We have--!" Foster began. The light was halved suddenly when the snake-like bolts of violet fired a multiple starburst pattern, one tendril touching the forward mobile. There was a dull thud and it went dark.  
  
"They got the Commander!" Foster screamed, blue eyes wide with horror. "Jocko--" That was a far as he got. With only one target left, the alien concentrated several beams, sweeping the icefield from two directions. The snow sizzled into steam wherever it touched, evaporating with a clap of pseudo-thunder. Two beams met, their juncture marked by Mobile zeta. There was a loud roar, the windshield shattering inward simultaneous with the liquid fuel tank going up.  
  
Light and sound ceased, while the snow continued to fall softly onto the gloomily, lifeless landscape.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
Ed Straker awoke to a tilted world. He blinked and shook his head from side to side, then gulped and looked like he wished he hadn't. Carefully moving nothing but his eyes, he glanced around the enclosed cabin puzzledly; he was lying where he'd been thrown against the mobile's right hand wall, looking 'up' a forty-degree angle at the radio console. It took a second look to reveal that the world was actually fine and that it was the snowcat that was on its side. Risking movement again, if reluctantly, he raised his head, making another cursory examination; all interior lighting was out leaving the cabin dim, and there was a fine mist of smoke in the air that was already dissipating as it followed gravity's direction and sank.  
  
"Alec?" He called the name softly, coughed, then winced and clapping a hand to the side of his face. A discolored swelling was already emerging at his hairline and trailing down onto his jaw, leaking a trickle of blood along the side of his face. He stopped, seeking the double seats that were now 'above' him. A body hung half-in, half-out the nearest one, slumped over the armrest. He moved his jaw as little as possible to ask, "Alec, are you all right?"  
  
"Mfphg." Freeman's tousled brown head bobbed then rose, hands automatically scrabbling to secure his semi-seated position. Giving up the impossible attempt, he twisted until he was able to slide out of it altogether, landing ungracefully next to Straker's right shoulder. "Bruised but unbloodied," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think. What about you?"  
  
Straker's hand moved from his face to his back; he tried an experimental stretch, winced again and aborted the attempt. "The Boston Marathon isn't in my future for awhile, but I'll live."  
  
"Maybe." They sat quietly, taking stock of themselves for several seconds, then Freeman took a deep breath and heaved himself toward the front glass. The snow was still coming down, thicker than before, muting but unable to dispel the red-and-yellow hot flames of the third mobile, cloaking the smoldering second one. "Oh, my...." Freeman murmured, horror stricken at the sight.  
  
Straker caught the tone and struggled upward as well, albeit more laboriously, using the bolted-down seats as a brace. He reached the front and slumped heavily against Freeman, knees weakening at the destruction, naturally pale skin draining even further. "The crews," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Jocko. ... Paul."  
  
"They couldn't have survived," Freeman groaned, clamping the Commander's arm convulsively. "Not a single chance."  
  
Azure eyes froze over, growing more arctic than the glacier upon which they sat. Stiffly, he turned from his lost team to the alien ship, visible on their left from this mobile's vantage. "Anything from the Ufo?" he asked hollowly.  
  
Freeman shook himself physically out of the paralysis of shock, his brown head turning to follow the line of sight. "Hard to tell with all the blowing snow," he managed after two tries. "But I don't see any movement. It was definitely damaged by our assault." He sighed, gaze irresistibly drawn back to the flames on the edge of the snowfield. "We'll be hard put to retrieve the bodies if this storm keeps up. It'll bury the entire site."  
  
A muscle leaped in Straker's damaged jaw, the only conspicuous indication that the words had struck home. But there were other signs to one who knew where to look, subtle ones. The good shoulders sagged slightly inward under the light blue parka, as though carrying a new burden, lines marring the smooth face around the eyes and mouth. Straker's empty gaze shifted briefly toward the flames, then determinedly away, locking on the alien ship. "They're out of it, Alec. But we still have a job to do."  
  
Freeman's brown eyes opened wide, mouth describing an 'O' of astonishment. "I don't believe you. We've just lost four men -- four friends -- and all you say is that we have a bloody job to do?"  
  
Thin lips compressed, suppressing the anger in his voice but not his gaze. "What do you suggest, Alec? I'm not God -- there isn't anything I can do to bring those people back."  
  
"You could be a little less cold blooded about it," Freeman snapped, face flushed and still watching the smoke from Mobile zeta. "We've both known Jocko Duval for over five years. Peg was retiring to office duty next week; she and her husband were going to start a family. And Paul...." He stopped, quick glance catching the pain that spasmed Straker's face at the young pilot's mention; his temper immediately cooled. "I was rather fond of the boy too," he said more quietly, interpreting his old friend correctly. "In another couple of years he might have had my spot.  
  
Straker swallowed, again schooling his face into the emotionless mask that had become a part of him. "He won't have it now, and we still have work to do."  
  
Distress returned the anger to Freeman's hawk-like features, though less strongly, cloaked now in sadness. "Blast it all, Ed, is it going to kill you to admit that boy meant something to you? That Jocko, Peg, Ali -- they counted as something past a statistic?"  
  
Tenuous control holding, Straker at last met his old friend's accusing gaze. "I've known Jocko as long as you have, Alec," he began, using a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the blood on his face. "Paul--" The name caught and Straker bowed his head, his voice growing so taut that Freeman touched his arm, withdrawing almost at once.  
  
"He's the one that really hurts, isn't he," the Brit suggested carefully. "He was too close to becoming a friend, rather more than just a subordinate."  
  
The blond head came back up, chin set defensively. "SHADO isn't a social club. I know what you want me to say, Alec -- that if I hadn't been so bullhead about coming ahead without air support, Paul-- ... all of them ... would still be alive."  
  
Freeman managed to look even more astonished, not an easy feat when one is reeling from one shock after the next. "That wasn't what I was thinking at all. That was a command decision, and for what it's worth, I agree. This could be our one shot at learning about alien technology -- our best chance at ending the war."  
  
"The war is over for them now," Straker pounded home, pressing the bloody kerchief to his scalp. "It goes on for us -- and the rest of the planet."  
  
"The duty to the living," Freeman quoted, withdrawing from that driven gaze.  
  
"The living being us, our friends, and the rest of planet Earth." Point made if unsatisfactorily, the American turned from Freeman until he was facing the window. "I'm not going to stand here talking about those we lost, Alec. We're in Greenland for a reason -- so were they. I still want to get inside that Ufo. And if the alien happens to cross our sights...." He clenched his free fist, frozen gaze fixed on the unmoving shadow of the UFO. He didn't need to finish, the bare hint of a wolfish grimace was more than eloquent.  
  
Alec filled his chest slowly, drooping shoulders coming up with an effort. "So, what do we do now? This mobile isn't going anywhere, at least, not unless we can tip her rightside. In this position we can't even use the cannon."  
  
"Better check our options." Straker roamed the small compartment tensely, taking in the array of instruments and equipment in a sweep. "Power?"  
  
Freeman glanced down to the dark gauges under his hand. He flipped a switch and one of them flickered weakly. "Fuel cells showing enabled, but we're not getting distribution. Wiring must be down."  
  
"There's not much smoke. That's a good sign; we might have only lost individual circuits instead of the whole sheath." The blond stared thoughtfully to his right at the roof of the vehicle. "We're tipped at about a forty degree angle; port treads look to be completely clear of the snow."  
  
"Which means that even if we could apply power, we might succeed in doing nothing more than falling over completely." Freeman sighed. "And we haven't even mentioned the fact that we're gawking right down the throat of a probably functional alien ship not one hundred meters away."  
  
Straker wandered to the front of the vehicle and peered at the world through the plate glass front; the more heavily blowing snow now obscured all but the faintest shadow of their enemy and the destroyed mobiles. "Using human bodies means they have human limitations -- the storm may be blocking their vision as thoroughly as ours. We'd better take advantage of it while we can."  
  
"For what it's worth." The words were glum though Freeman dredged up a bleak smile for his old friend. "All right, Commander, where do we start?"  
  
The alien ship stood tantalizingly near; Straker watched it longingly then visibly caught himself. "We'd better start defensively. I'll check out gamma for damage, starting with the treads. If they're buckled, we're stuck no matter what we do. Did I see a winch on our equipment manifest?"  
  
"You did, indeed. In the starboard exterior storage ... which is presently being leaned upon by two tons of mobile."  
  
"Blast." Straker punched his thigh with his fist. "What about zeta's?"  
  
Freeman straightened, a spark of interest easing his craggy features at last. "Yes. A winch is standard equipment. And if we can afix a cable to the rockface ..."  
  
"... we should be able to right the mobile," Straker finished with a pleased nod. "Okay, Alec, you retrieve the winch from zeta. While you're there, look around for anything else we can use. I'll begin with the treads; if they check out, I'll get started on the power distribution."  
  
Feeling a bit more cheerful with a goal in mind, they preceded to fortify themselves against the bitter cold without. Parkas were zipped, hats and heavy wool gloves were donned, then the two poised at the topside entrance to their vehicle. "The wind is whipping up the snow pretty heavily, Alec," Straker cautioned, handing across one of SHADO's custom designed G-57 assault rifles, then picking another for himself. "If you can't maintain visual contact, turn back. We can't risk you getting lost in a whiteout."  
  
"Don't worry," the other man returned fervently, checking the load before slinging the rifle over his shoulder. "You'll see me bouncing back like a skirt on a hula dancer."  
  
The hatch was cracked and the two shivered in the blast of arctic cold; they easily scaled the ladder, climbing down the port side of the 'cat, finally leaping from the highside into the knee-deep snow below. From where they crouched they had a clear view of their mobile's positioning; the right caterpillar tread was in a type of depression blown out of the ice by the alien blast, the angle too awkward for it to get any traction; the left hung high in the air. "The cliffside is only twenty or thirty feet away," Straker yelled over the wind. "Looks pretty solid. If we can anchor a piton deep enough, we should get the leverage we need to tip her up."  
  
Freeman calculated angles and distances, cocking his head reflectively. "Not possible," he pronounced at last. "See how far the weight is off- center? That's going to require the piton be secured right there." He pointed at a spot describing a flat vertical drop of some twenty-five feet. "We can't climb that wall any closer than over ... there."  
  
Though the ski mask hid his features, the American's body went still, his eyes narrowing in concentration. A twenty-knot gust nearly knocked him off his feet; he caught Freeman's arm to balance himself, turning slightly to face his friend. "During the war the Mongolians were short on arms; toward the end they started to make their own projectile weapons with nothing but gunpowder and handmade barrels."  
  
"Projectile weapons we've got," Freeman said, stamping his feet. "Rifles, handguns, grenade launch--" He stopped, jerking his head at his commander. "The grenade launcher! We can strip the grenades for powder, and use the barrel to fire the pitons with a cable attached! With what we have, we'll be able to generate enough explosive power to put a piton through that cliff! It'll need some modifications, but nothing I can't handle."  
  
Straker slapped his arm. "Good. Provided we can get a winch to use with it."  
  
"Let's see what I can retrieve from zeta," Freeman remarked practically, moving off. It was hard work covering the hundred or so meters back to the unburning mobile -- it was about equidistant to the alien ship -- and its shape was growing indistinct as snow began to drift against the metal skin. The still burning delta was clearly visible, however; steam rose from it in a cloud, mingling with the black smoke of the petrol based fuel. Freeman's footsteps made loud crunching noises in the snow, eaten up almost immediately by the heavy air. The wind was a biting, howling enemy as deadly as any extraterrestrial, and just as implacable. Freeman kept his head down and trudged on.  
  
From afar Mobile zeta didn't look to be too badly damaged; parts of its silvery form still reflected dully, emblazoned SHADO logo clear. Alec had covered nearly one-half the distance before the actual devastation became evident. The most obvious manifestation of damage from that distance was the windscreen, exploded inward as smeared teardrops. Closer yet and the man could look in to the charred interior of the craft -- it was as perfectly gutted as if by a blowtorch, such analogy being not too far afield.  
  
"Oh, my--" The words were choked out of Alec Freeman when he was no more than several feet away and about to climb in through the gaping windscreen. A figure sat still upright in the battered command chair; it was blackened and leathery and still bore the vague configurations of what had once been a man.  
  
Skin tinting as green as any alien'sf, Freeman closed his eyes, adams apple bobbing rapidly. "Paul," he whispered though he could have had no way of telling which crewmember he could be looking at.  
  
He gulped and forced his eyes open, sliding his gaze past that grisly remnant to the interior of the craft. The heat had been an explosive burst, disintegrating plastic and cloth on contact. The shell of the craft, however, was titanium steel plate; this was scorched but not melted through. There could be little inside of use, however, so Freeman circled the craft to the tool locker in its side, breathing his relief when the body was out of sight. It was the work of several minutes to gain access, requiring that he use every iota of weight and strength to force the warped door off its hinges. The interior was relatively undamaged; he extracted a moderately sized winch and extra cable, hooking them both to a stout leather belt and strapping it around his waist. That accomplished, he again skirted the hulk, leaving its uncertain shelter to begin his journey back to mobile gamma, talking to himself for the mere sake of hearing a human voice in the midst of such waste.  
  
"At least we won't be standing on our heads," he muttered, patting the winch. "And if the alien gives us a chance to right ourselves, we'll blow it right off the planet" Nervous eyes shifted in each direction at the self-reminder that danger still lurked. To the left the field of white was unbroken save by the uptilted mobile, with the previously remarked upon rocks perhaps ten meters beyond. Straight ahead the U.F.O. remained a dim blur against slate colored glacial ice. The right was no more encouraging with jagged rocks poking through the snow like skeletal fingers, forming the extent of the shallow round valley and backframing the embered remains of mobile delta. Brown eyes swept from the horizon to the fore, narrowing at a slightly discolored lump only yards away. Curious, he moved closer, starting when the shape resolve into that of a man, the discoloration into a thatch of dark hair. Fighting hope and pending disappointment, he hurried closer, dropping to his knees beside the still form and turning it over.  
  
"Paul?" he asked, brushing snow from the young man's face with his glove. "You with us, lad?" There was no response, no evidence of life in the gray- white face. Freeman shook his head sadly, laying one hand on the charred jacket front in a gesture of farewell. "You were a good man, Paul; too bloody good to go out like this." The chest under his hand contracted fractionally, and he stiffened, articulate eyebrows climbing into his hairline. With shaking hands he pulled off one glove and pressed it against the young man's exposed throat; something throbbed under his fingertips, uneven but there. Face lighting, Freeman raised both head and voice in a bellow that penetrated the absorbing blanket of white like a silver knife. "Ed? Commander!"  
  
Straker had spent the intervening time crawling across and under the trapped tractor, paying particular attention to the treads themselves. To his relief he found he'd found them basically undamaged; most of the alien energy burst had expended itself on the iron-tough ice, some of it transmitting into the undercarriage and the wiring beyond. Repairs might be time consuming, but were not beyond their present capability. At Freeman's yell he jerked his head out of the lowermost inspection panel, alarm widening his large blue eyes. "Alec?" he questioned, struggling out from under the mobile. He covered the distance to the brown jacketed figure at a dead run -- or as close as he could come in knee-high snow -- coming in range fully two minutes later, panting for breath in the icy air.  
  
"Alec," he called, glance involuntarily traveling as he passed to the burned out mobile and the charred remains inside. He shuddered and continued his desperate run until he'd reached Alec Freeman, who was kneeling over something concealed from his view. "Are you all--?" Freeman shifted his weight backwards, giving him visual access, and Straker stopped, every muscle going tense. "Paul?" he gasped disbelievingly, dropping to his knees. Eyes drifted to the dark burn marks on the once white jacket then to the slack features. "Alec, is he--?"  
  
Freeman slapped his back happily. "He's alive, Ed, but not for long if we don't get him to shelter. It's going to take us both to do that."  
  
Straker nodded his understanding; this time his emotionless mask was more difficult to maintain. He expelled a breath and gave up, letting the sloppy smile that threatened to break through have its way. "Then why're you sitting there grinning like an ape?" he demanded, wrapping both arms around the injured man's legs. "Let's go." Freeman secured a hold under Foster's shoulders and together they struggled to haul 175 pounds of dead weight back to gamma. The biting wind brought frozen tears to their eyes, obscuring vision, while drifting snow made walking difficult even without their burden. The storm was at once asset and drawback for the humans. Though they had trouble negotiating their way, it also -- theoretically, at least -- shielded them from enemy view, though both still felt a crawling sensation between their shoulder blades, the knowledge that altered eyes could even then be taking aim on them with deadly accuracy.  
  
With the mobile on its side and the side access blocked, the upper turret hatch was the solitary entrance, and managing with Foster in tow was a nightmare, accomplished only in stages. Finally, however, they'd managed to lower the mercifully unconscious figure into the shelter of the craft, before slumping exhausted on his either side.  
  
"Is he alive?" Alec Freeman asked, whipping off his ski mask and using it to wipe his streaming face. "Hate to think we went through all that for nothing." The words were flip but there was an underlying hunger there, the craving of a man to snatch even partial victory from despair.  
  
In answer, Straker pulled off his gloves and pressed his fingers against the pilot's throat, frowning. "He's alive. Out cold, though." He checked the young man's pupils, then laid his palm flat against Foster's forehead, frowning. "Probably concussion from the blast and shock. Nothing much we can do about that."  
  
"Better at least see if anything's broken and fight shock," Freeman suggested, stretching his legs straight out in front of him. "In this climate, that could be the real killer."  
  
Straker removed his own ski mask and gloves, stuffing the former in a pocket and tossing the latter carelessly aside. "Can you get any power to the heaters from the batteries?"  
  
Taking another look at Foster's white face, Freeman used the American's shoulder to push himself erect. He braced himself between wall and seats to stagger wearily to the glass pane, pausing to glance out into the snow. "No movement from the Ufo," he reported with real relief. "At least, nothing yet." He next turned his attention to the control board, pressing a button and scowling at the results. "One of the batteries dead; the other one is still holding a partial charge. It won't last long if we use it for heat, and if they're both dead, we won't be able to get the engines started".  
  
Straker listened impassively, nimble fingers prodding the still deeply unconscious Foster for injury. "We'll risk a few minutes worth on the blowers, but make sure the lights stay off; that alien probably thinks we're dead or he'd've been here to finish the job. We can hood the torches and use them instead."  
  
"Right." Freeman pressed another button; rather than the low hum of the blowers, there was a flash from the console, then nothing. He sighed and palmed it off, then bent, retrieving a flashlight from under the seat. "Looks like we do without until I can trace that short. Sounded like it was in the main circuit board just fore of the emergency breakers."  
  
Straker shrugged and lifted Foster's arm, examining the bruising peeking out from under one white sleeve. "Then we do without," he said practically. "We'll worry about it after the engines and weapons are back online."  
  
"Right." Freeman picked his way across the cabin, stepping over both men, pausing briefly to clap Straker on the back. "Good to have one of them back, isn't it? How is he?"  
  
"Better than we thought twenty minutes ago." Light danced briefly in the azure eyes then was gone, Straker's voice reporting abstractedly as his practical mind turned toward the logistics of their situation. "Looks like his heavy clothing absorbed most of the flame. Broken arm is the worst of it; painful but nothing a man doesn't survive under normal circumstances."  
  
The grunted reply was an odd mixture of satisfaction and skepticism. "Normal circumstances," Alec emphasized, opening a panel in the tilted ceiling. "Well, I'd feel better if he'd wake up, anyway."  
  
"He will." Back on balance, Ed Straker's shoulders came up, the extra burden they'd been carrying dropping away at this unexpected grace. "In the meantime, our job hasn't changed. We still have a Ufo to deal with."  
  
They tied a crude splint to the boy's broken arm, then turned full attention to the multi-colored spaghetti strands of wiring, located behind panels in the roof. Tracing lines and testing circuits was at best difficult by flashlight, but the work progressed steadily and in total silence. The two were well-familiar with each other's methods and, after twenty years' association, coordinated on near telepathic levels, something the other SHADO employees, including Foster, had been heard to remark upon with considerable awe.  
  
Three-quarters of an hour later, Freeman unbent from his crouch under the steering column and craned his neck to see Straker, who was squatting comfortably in the rear with a printed circuit in one hand. "Grenade launcher is modified; all we have to do is point and shoot ... and pray it doesn't explode in our faces." He laughed, quietly and without humor. "I may not be Mongolian, but I did the best I could. No guarantees I won't lose an arm on firing." He jabbed at a cramp in his back. "Weapons center enabled yet?"  
  
Straker shrugged one handedly, a crease in his forehead betraying the depth of that iron concentration. "Almost. If I can get the Jalan module working, I should be able to reroute some of the power flow to the weaponry." He glanced over his shoulder, meeting his friend's questioning gaze. "I want full firepower before we resettle the mobile. My instincts are telling me we'll need it."  
  
"No argument here." The Welshman shivered and rubbed his hands vigorously together. "Don't forget the heat," he added, pulling up his discarded hood over his wavy hair. "Paul isn't the only one who could use a bit right now."  
  
One long fingered hand waved that away impatiently. "Low priority. Cannons first, then mobility. It won't do us any good telling the alien we're here if we can't defend ourselves."  
  
"We might not have to." Freeman's jaw sagged, eyes locked on something beyond the glass windows. "Something is moving out there, Ed. And it's coming our way."  
  
"Alien?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Straker made a dive for the rifles, abandoned against the wall. He thought a moment, then shimmied up the escape ladder and jammed one through the spokes of the hatch access; the other he placed on the floor just under the front console, within Freeman's easy reach. "Play 'possum, Alec. It's our only chance. If it thinks we're dead it might not bother finishing us off."  
  
Both men dropped to shelter, their heads jerking back around at a low sound from behind. "It's Paul," Freeman growled under his breath. "He's waking up."  
  
"He picked a lousy time to do it." Straker crabbed backward, taking Foster's chin in his hand. "Paul," he hailed in a low, intense voice. "Colonel Foster, listen to me. All our lives depend on your keeping quiet." Only semi-conscious, Foster tossed his head, muttering something unintelligible. Straker cast an anxious look toward the front window, and bent closer until his lips were only inches from the younger man's ear. "Paul...." He stopped, Freeman's insistent hiss giving warning that there was no more time! Giving up the attempt, he turned Foster's face against his chest, locking him in place with an arm across his shoulders. He then slumped forward bonelessly, draping himself across the feably twitching body; to an outside observer it would look as though both men had been thrown into a heap when the vehicle was hit.  
  
There was little to be heard through the steel plates for long, tense minutes, until their straining ears detected a light tapping on the glass. It ceased, and they could follow the progress of the intruder by the crunch of boots in crusted snow; there was a creaking sound from near the top of the vehicle, then the rattle of the hatch being violently rocked back and forth. The rifle clattered against the inner hull, slipped, then caught, defying alien attempts at entry.  
  
Without moving, Straker tightened his muscles, permitting no reaction from either himself or the injured Foster. Straker's eyes were open, dilated to black by the gloom and fixed on the shadows; his respiration was a harsh rasp, muffled desperately against Foster's hair. Finally, the alien's testing ceased, replaced once more by the faint sounds of the creature moving off.  
  
Alec's relieved gasp was audible. "Thought we were out of it for sure." He poked his head up cautiously to peek out the glass. "It's headed back toward its own ship. We got a break on that one."  
  
Straker heaved a shuddering sigh and relaxed the tense hold he was maintaining on Foster. He raised his head and looked down into see blurry blue eyes. "What's going on?" Foster asked, keeping his voice low.  
  
Straker carefully pushed himself into a sitting position, casting an involuntary glance over his shoulder before turning to study the young pilot analytically by the fading outside light, appraising him much as one would any resource. The exam was brief and piercing, Straker relaxing a long moment later, apparently satisfied by the lucidity in the return gaze even though dulled as the pain-muting effect of initial shock was wearing off. "How are you feeling?" he asked, avoiding the question for the moment.  
  
Foster blinked at him. He risked a glance at his immobilized right arm, his left hand moving to his temple. "I'll make it," he murmured at last, squeezing his eyes shut. "What did happen?"  
  
Keeping carefully low and out of range of any unwelcome observer, Alec Freeman moved closer, kneeling by the supine man and offering him a wide smile. "Good to see you awake at last. We spent a bad time there thinking we'd lost you."  
  
Straker was more reserved, emotional armor now fully back into place. "Bit of trouble we're in, Paul."  
  
Brown eyes widened. "A bit of trouble?" Freeman echoed incredulously. "Anyone ever tell you what a lovely talent for understatement you've got, Ed?"  
  
Straker ignored him. "In a nutshell, Colonel, we're in a tipped and unpowered mobile not one hundred meters from a downed Ufo--"  
  
"The Ufo!" Eyes flying wide with alarm, Foster started up; he was no more than halfway before his face lost every trace of color and he sagged; expecting this, Freeman grabbed his shoulder, eased him back.  
  
"Take it easy, lad," the Welshman admonished. "You're not one hundred percent yet."  
  
Straker anchored the younger man with a hand placed flat on his chest. "We're a-okay for the moment, Colonel. The alien thinks we were all killed in the fight and hasn't bothered with us since."  
  
"Not yet," Freeman muttered but only to himself. Louder, "Do you remember what happened at all?"  
  
Sweat beaded Foster's forehead, matting his hair, a frown drawing his brows together. "I ... remember.... Wasn't communications cut off?"  
  
Straker nodded. "The solar storm cut off radio contact first, then the blizzard blocked visuals from SID and the spysats." Still resting on Foster's chest, the fingers of his left hand curled slowly into a fist. "It's going to be several hours before we can expect assistance from either SkyDiver or SHADO Rescue."  
  
"What are we going to do, sir?" Foster asked, watching him intently.  
  
In what was a singular act of will, Straker opened his fingers one by one until they again lay flat. His smile was resolute if his eyes frosty. "We're going to survive, Colonel."  
  
Freeman tipped his head, just as firm. "You, however, are going to lie still. You took a pretty rough knock around in that explosion. In case you haven't noticed, you've been injured."  
  
Foster swallowed, returned memory living in his boyish features. "Jocko?" he asked hesitantly. "Captain Chapman?" Foster received his answer in their averted gazes. He clamped his broken arm clumsily to his chest, shuddering in the sodden silence. "I'm sorry, sir. ... Is there only one alien?"  
  
Features closed once more, Ed Straker shrugged. "That's all we've seen so far. Get some rest, Paul. Alec and I are going to see what we can do about getting this mobile combat worthy. While we're doing that, we've got some plans to make."  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
"I suppose this means dinner's off?"  
  
Colonel Virginia Lake's pink lips curled slightly at memory of the farewell she'd offered Alec Freeman prior to his departure for Greenland. Though offered amiably, there had actually been a note of regret in her statement. Since their first purely social encounter nearly two months ago, she'd come to feel a genuine affection for the Welsh ex-R.A.F. officer, far beyond the camaraderie they'd shared as co-workers. Alec was handsome and vibrant and a lot of fun -- his easy going efficiency an unexpected complement to her own icier competence. How unlike Paul Foster, with whom she'd carried on a casual flirtation just previously; though undeniably a handsome boy, Foster was too young and much too much like Ed Straker for her tastes, the professional disparity soon cooling any notions of an actual romance -- for her, if not for Foster. His problem, she thought yet again, some pang of guilt lingering over the cursory dismissal she'd given him. It's not as though we're not all adults here. Nor as if he'd treated her with anything less than due courtesy since then, either.  
  
"Colonel!"  
  
Virginia Lake snapped out of the very brief reverie she'd permitted herself, tipping her head downward to meet Lieutenant Keith Ford's intense gaze. "Yes?"  
  
He gestured her closer, pointing a ruler-straight finger at his monitor. "Transponder just winked out on Mobile delta, Mar'm."  
  
"What?" Startled, she strode forward three steps until she cold see the data screen for herself. There were four columns of figures portrayed there, and more blank spaces than she liked, thanks to the solar flares presently making a shambles of Earth's entire communications network. "The only way that transponder would cease transmitting is either the batteries running down or--"  
  
"Or the destruction of the vehicle," Ford supplied when she did not go on. "Yes, Mar'm."  
  
She touched a button, switching his system to display the satellite photos they were receiving on tight-band laser transmission; at first she thought that was inoperative also, then realized that the swirling white blanket hiding northern Greenland from view was an accurate representation of weather conditions in the area. There was a storm, all right, a bad one in full swing. She tried the backup sensors, feeling a churning in her stomach when the results remained the same. "Blast. Blast! Blast! We're getting nothing at all. Lieutenant Johnson."  
  
The black haired communications officer lifted her headphone slightly, cocking one dark brown at the commander-pro-tem. "Yes, madam?"  
  
"Try to establish radio contact again. There can be occasional lulls in the radiation emissions. I want to take advantage of the next one to come along."  
  
Ayshea Johnson nodded once and activated her mike. "SHADO Control to Mobiles. Please respond."  
  
She repeated the hail over and over, Virginia Lake tuning her out after the first time. Her mind was already running one scenario after the next, only the first, hopeful, few permitting the possibility of simple equipment failure. "Ford, is there--?"  
  
His dismayed gasp interrupted her mid-sentence. "Second transponder gone, Colonel. Mobile zeta presumably destroyed."  
  
She stared, a split second given over to regret. That would have been Paul Foster's vehicle. Paul. Dead. Suddenly she wished she'd let him down more kindly when she told him good-bye. "Still nothing on visuals?" she snapped, terminating that line of thought in lieu of more immediate necessity. "Or radio?"  
  
"Solar activity is peaking," Johnson reported over her shoulder. "Nothing but static on every communications band."  
  
Ford switched from sensor to satellite and back, shaking his head. "Nothing on satellite. Storm is showing as a Force 9 blizzard with full gale. Computer estimating visibility above ground level at fifteen meters."  
  
"Computer. ... Hmmm." Lake pressed her lips together. "Put the image on disk, Lieutenant, then initiate Leiber's K-13 program. It's archaic, but it'll resolve the imaging on the thermal level better than anything we have running."  
  
"Good idea, Colonel." Ford's nimble fingers played across his board, and seconds later his monitor showed an exaggerated representation of a rocky terrain punctuated by four indistinct blobs of color. One glowed a bright magenta, the next a duller blood tint. The third was a barely seen pink, the fourth nearly invisible in the purple ranges.  
  
"Two of the mobiles are showing signs of fire," Lake interpreted, tapping the screen with a long fingernail. "The purple is the Ufo; the only heat there is from the chemical reaction building slowly to disintegration."  
  
"Mobile gamma didn't burn," Ford pointed out. "The Commander and Colonel Freeman could still be alive."  
  
"Could be." Lake put her fists decisively on her rounded hips. "Have SkyDiver standing by. Once we have visibility I want Captain Waterman to make an aerial recce at the lowest altitude he can manage. Tell Njordsberg Base to have a heavily armed rescue team standing by. I want to be able to go the minute we have a window." "It'll be hours before we can pick them up," Ford pointed out. He wasn't being argumentative, just honest.  
  
Lake sighed, acknowledging the truth of the statement with a curt nod. "Maybe, but we can offer whatever support possible in the interim ... if there's anyone left down there to support."  
  
***  
  
With the main, battery-run chronometers out of commission, it was hard to tell how long Straker and Freeman spent tracing back the miles of wiring comprising Mobile gamma's electrical system, but twilight had already given way to deep gloom before Freeman slid the last connection into place and closed the front dash. "That's it for the instrumentation," he declared, wearily rubbing the back of his neck. "We have operator's control and mobility on the cannon. If nothing else, we're armed again."  
  
Straker, sitting comfortably crosslegged in the farthest position aft, nodded absent acknowledgement. "I'm almost through here, too. I had to cannibalize some of the memory chips out of life support to activate the tertiary servos, but we should at least be mobile again."  
  
"Meaning we do without heat until we get back to SHADAir," the Welshman translated, stuffing his blue tinted hands into his pockets.  
  
"No choice." Straker spliced a broken red wire to a neatly cut green one, wrapping a small bit of tape around them both and stuffing the entire sheath back into it's slot. "There. That should do it. There's no way to test how well everything will hold up until we start up."  
  
Sliding gracelessly around the bolted seats, Alec Freeman made his way toward the rear. He crawled carefully over Foster, who lay huddled fast asleep in the middle of the vehicle, stopping by the bank of indicators half hidden by a tool kit. "Fuel gauge starting to register; no puncture in the tanks, at least."  
  
"Next step: re-righting the snowcat without getting blasted." Straker scratched at the dried blood streaking his bruised jaw, flaking some of it away. "It shouldn't take more than a few minutes to attach the winch. Is it still snowing hard enough to hide our movements from the Ufo?"  
  
Freeman crabbed back toward the front of the vehicle, lifting his head high enough to see out the glass. "Starting to slow.... Uh-oh." He ducked quickly under the dash, jerking one thumb toward the red suited figure moving in the distance. "Our friend has left his ship again."  
  
"Heading this way?" Straker demanded, likewise keeping low.  
  
Freeman risked another peek, then shook his head. "Tangent course. General direction of delta. Maybe he wants to toast marshmallows." He slumped down, crossing his arms dispiritedly. "Doesn't matter much -- he'll see us the minute we crack the top hatch. We're stuck here."  
  
The blond didn't move. "We do have another way out," he mused aloud. "The primary exit."  
  
"The mobile is sitting on it," Freeman pointed out sourly. "One and a half tons of 'cat."  
  
"The mobile is balanced on it," Straker corrected. "It's leaning against blasted snow and ice."  
  
One slightly bushy eyebrow rose. "Tunnel out?"  
  
"Snow and ice are a little more tractable than armored steel." He and Freeman converged on the center of the mobile and the metal panel that usually constituted the main access. Straker crouched by the sleeping Foster, and ran his fingers round the seal. "It doesn't feel deformed. Did you connect the power to the automatic slide?"  
  
Freeman shook his head, nevertheless punching the button marked Open. "I needed some of those circuits for the steering mechanism. Besides, it didn't seem worthwhile at the time."  
  
A recessed port opened at a touch revealing a flywheel about eight inches in diameter. The American commander stuck his fingers into the spokes and forced it an experimental half-turn. "We'll have to do it ... manually," he grunted, stopping to glower at Foster, who was lying on the portal. "What's the alien doing?"  
  
Freeman craned his neck. "It's still heading cross-field toward delta."  
  
"Doesn't mean it won't be coming back this way. We'd better get started." Still kneeling, Straker moved the tool box and sundry equipment toward the rear of the vehicle, then turned to Foster, who had not awakened during the preceding. "Paul?" he called softly, touching the young man's shoulder.  
  
The tousled brown head tossed restlessly, then Foster murmured something, and opened his eyes. "Sir?"  
  
Straker essayed a half-smile. "Sorry to disturb you, Colonel, but we need you to move. We want to build an escape tunnel out of this igloo, and you're lying on the front door."  
  
"Time ta blow dis joint, kid," Alec added in his best American accent; he sounded like Edward G. Robinson with a sinus condition. Blessed with no sense of humor at all, Straker rolled his eyes, earning an apologetic shrug. "Well, we are."  
  
Foster blinked puzzledly from one to the other, shifting his gaze when Straker tapped the hatch. "I don't understand."  
  
Sinking wearily from a squat to a seated position, Freeman rubbed his hands together briskly, seeking to return some of the circulation. "Not much to it," he said in a friendly tone. "We need to be topside if we're going to tip the 'cat back up. Our problem is that the alien's left his ship again. The minute we crack the hatch, we'll be visible from most of the field."  
  
"Is it coming in this direction again?" the younger pilot asked worriedly, struggling to sit. He was more alert though still obviously in a great deal of pain, and made no protest when Freeman lent him a hand.  
  
"Not yet, and I'd like to be operational before he does." Straker waited until his companions had settled on the far side of the door, then again bent to the flywheel; it was easier to turn this time, and it wasn't long before the trio found themselves peering up at a solid wall of frozen white. "It's solid," the blond observed giving it a slap with the flat of his glove. "It'll be hard digging, but I don't think we'll have to worry about it caving in on us."  
  
"Oh, good," Freeman deadpanned. "I always hate when that happens."  
  
Both Straker and Foster turned to stare at the uncharacteristically dour quip from the organization's top intelligence agent. "You don't sound too enthusiastic about this," the American snapped, irritably resting one fist on his hip. "If you have a better idea...."  
  
Freeman sighed, gathering himself with a visible effort. "No." Realizing that some explanation was required, he added, "I'm sorry. I'm still a little shaken from what happened to Jocko, Peg and Ali. I'm fine, now, Commander."  
  
Patently untrue, but now was not the time to address the subject. Straker hesitated, regret in his own light eyes briefly obvious before practicality returned. "Good. We have a lot of work to do. Better get something to chip away at this ice."  
  
Foster also averted his gaze, stricken at the reminder of their lost comrades. Now he hugged his broken arm tighter against his chest and sat up straighter, lean jaw set. "What can I do, Commander?"  
  
"Right now? Not much." At the troubled look he received in reply he added, "Except to keep close watch on that alien; if it heads back this way, I want to know about it at once."  
  
*  
  
It took forty-five minutes of backbreaking labor to chip through the rock- hard wall of ice and construct a tunnel to the open air. When the final block was removed, a blast of arctic cold swept into the already chill mobile, making three men shiver despite their parkas.  
  
"That's it," Straker called, cautiously poking his head out like a groundhog. "As long as we keep low, the drifts should shield us from view until we get the cables attached." This too was soon accomplished; Straker first, then Freeman, crawled belly-down out through the uneven snow, fastening the heavy steel cable to solid hooks on the snowcat's roof. Straker had finished tying the last knot when a loud hiss and frantic tug on his pantsleg drew him back inside. "What?"  
  
Foster pointed toward the window while shrinking back against the wall. "The alien -- it's headed back this way," he reported, keeping his voice low. The three maintained a tense silence while the young man cautiously rechecked. "Not coming here," he amended, squinting to see through the gloom -- at sixteen hundred hours zulu, the only exterior illumination now was from a cloud-and-snow-veiled twilight and a weak glow from the UFO. "I think it's heading for zeta."  
  
Alec leaned over his shoulder, watching the barely seen moving figure for himself. "Wonder what it's looking for. Not bodies for shipment; there aren't any whole ones there." He stopped, exchanging a disturbed look with Foster. "They ... er ... don't collect dead bodies for anything, do they?"  
  
"Not that we know of," the test pilot returned uncomfortably, more for mutual encouragement than because Freeman didn't know.  
  
"Blast." Straker, having spent the last several seconds engaged in some rapid mental calculation, now closed one fist, slamming it impotently against his own thigh. "Too close. From zeta's position, it could hear us when we fire off the piton."  
  
"Is it impossible to secure it by hand?" Paul Foster asked, sapphire eyes darting hopefully from window to Commander.  
  
Straker shook his head. "Even if we could climb that rock face, we couldn't hope to secure it well enough or high enough to tip this much weight. Looks like we make getting rid of the alien an early priority." He retrieved the terrain map from where it lay wadded under the seat, smoothing it on his bent knee. "We have one advantage -- it doesn't know we're alive. Militarily, the element of surprise is a potent one. Hand me that torch, Alec."  
  
Freeman obeyed, both he and Foster also studying the map by the light of Straker's hooded flashlight. "The tunnel gives us access to the surrounding rocks right about here." The American ran a finger in a shallow circle, the circumference proportionate to that of the volcanically produced open bowl in which they found themselves. "We can use the hills for cover and catch the alien in sniper fire before it realizes we're there."  
  
Foster touched one of the discarded rifles, now stacked neatly against the wall. "These G-57s might not give us enough range for that; they were created to punch through heavy armor, but not for accuracy at any distance. If the alien is too far from your rim position...."  
  
"We can't afford to take that chance." Straker's gloved hand traced the opposing direction on the map, terminating on the far side of Mobile zeta's location. "Alec and I will split up at the top and work our way around on both sides. If we bracket the enemy in a crossfire it won't matter which way it runs -- one of us will be in range."  
  
"We'd better make the first shot count anyway," Freeman added grimly. "If it makes it back to the Ufo, it could have working weaponry aboard. Our only chance is to take it down while it's in the open."  
  
Decided, the two began their preparations for moving out, redonning ski masks under the hoods and zipping parkas tight around their throats. Freeman chose one rifle, offering the second to Straker, who slung it across his shoulder. "We'd better get going before it decides to head for home."  
  
"Providing it doesn't have a partner already home," the Welshman interjected, perking up now that the time for action was there.  
  
Foster watched them both through worried eyes, his broken arm cradled securely. "What about me, Sir?"  
  
Straker studied him closely though little could be seen of his face in the fading light save a pale smudge. "Are you fit enough to fire off the grenade launcher and get this thing upright? If there is another alien aboard that Ufo, it could decide to take another shot at us at any time."  
  
A light touch on Foster's shoulder drew his head around; Alec stared unhappily down at him. "It's ready to go. The charge is set in the barrel, and the mechanism's altered to fire normally when you touch the trigger. Piton is loaded with one end of the steel cable attached. All you have to do is aim and hope it doesn't blow your head off."  
  
"I can do it," the ex-test pilot asserted confidently.  
  
Straker twisted his lips and hefted his sleeve until he could see the expensive aviator's chrono strapped to his left wrist. "I know you can. Synchronize watches. Give us twenty minutes from the time we top the ridge, then fire the grenade launcher. We should have the alien bracketed by then in case the explosive charge is loud enough to carry in this cold air."  
  
Foster nodded briskly. "Acknowledged, Sir. And ... good hunting."  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
"Colonel Lake."  
  
Virginia Lake straightened so suddenly at the hail that the printout she was studying crumpled loudly between her hands; it was the only sign of tension she showed. She smoothed it deliberately even as she spun on Ford, hair bobbing on the shoulders of her tan tunic. "What is it, Lieutenant?"  
  
He gestured her closer with a jerk of his head, pointing to the myriad groups of numbers scrolling down his screen. "Report from meteorology, ma'am. Snow squall has moved off-shore. Wind speed no longer sustained twenty knots."  
  
"Is visual contact restored?" Not waiting for an answer, she stabbed a control with her fingernail; the monitor changed images, now showing a high altitude satellite shot. White still veiled most of the picture though it was thinner than before, the tops of even low mountains clearly visible above the clouds. "Still obscured. What about thermal and magnetic?"  
  
Ford typed in a command on his keyboard and the picture changed yet again, this time to a computer generated representation of the area, the colors mixed haphazardly with lines of static. "Solar activity is still high enough to render all EM-based equipment useless at that latitude. We're still using the emergency laser link with Moonbase, but communications is more or less functional elsewhere."  
  
White incisors caught her lower lip, light eyes narrowed. "Order Sky-1 to make a low altitude fly-by of the area. I want his cameras running in full sensor mode; have the images transmitted directly to the A.I.'G. for decoding. If he can fly low enough, we should be able to minimize distortion."  
  
"Yes, mar'm."  
  
Ford switched to a scrambled frequency directly to SkyDiver-1, cruising the north Atlantic, while Lake moved to stand behind the dark haired Ayshea Johnson. "Lieutenant. Contact Njordsberg Base. Tell them to forget the snowcat -- I want a helicopter standing by in the area. They'll be going in as soon as the wind drops. Have them coordinate with Sky-1 for area conditions."  
  
Johnson nodded briskly, and Lake turned away, again unconsciously crumpling her printout. "Maybe now we'll see what's going on up there."  
  
***  
  
Straker led the way out the tunnel, automatically wincing at the frozen air that cut even through the parka and ski mask. He and Alec resumed the belly crawl that had safely protected them from view earlier, keeping low until they reached the low wall of rock and glacial ice that marked the rim of the shallow, bowl-shaped depression in which they and the U.F.O. were situated. Irregularly ice-coated and slippery, the thirty-five foot wall proved a difficult but not completely insurmountable barrier for two men armed with little more than screwdrivers and sheer determination. Straker, however, heaved a sigh of relief once they'd topped the ridge and were safely concealed once more from enemy eyes.  
  
"No reaction to us from the Ufo," he muttered to Freeman, settling more securely on a wide ledge. "If there's anyone aboard, either their sensors are out or this little bit of snow is hiding us better than we expected."  
  
"If there's anyone aboard," Freeman returned, using his screwdriver to chip out a sturdier handhold. "Most of these guys ... we think ... travel solitarily. Our only enemy is probably the one we're hunting."  
  
"...the one we're hunting." The words brought a thin smile to Straker's lips, badly needed confidence melting the icewater in his veins. Obviously, Freeman had snapped out of his funk; Straker was glad. He'd nearly forgotten how much he depended on the sturdy Welshman for support in these encounters. "Then let's finish the job," he said aloud, rubbing his palms together briskly. "I still want a look inside that Ufo before it destructs."  
  
Freeman clapped him on the back and moved off to 'round the right side of the rim, Straker going left and circling behind the ice-bound U.F.O. Intending to check his coordinates, he paused approximately halfway to his target position -- one that would put him equidistant from Freeman, and poised so as to give the alien no hope of reaching cover. He was scrambling in a circle some fifteen feet below the top, even more motivated to caution once he'd seen the sheer dropoff on that side, some chasms dropping thirty and more meters. The terrain otherwise was even more mountainous than that over which they'd been travelling, and dotted with great gashes in the Earth's crust through which steam rose.  
  
Carefully not looking down, he scrambled forward until achieving a section that was more or less flat -- the frozen mound of the glacier itself -- then climbed the remaining few feet to the top and peeked over, rising an inch at a time so as not to alert his prey should the alien happen to be looking in that direction. Bereft of even such meager shelter as the ridge, the wind whipped stinging pellets of ice into his face, burning the semi-exposed skin and making his eyes tear. He swiped the already freezing droplets off onto his sleeve and peered down to find himself looking down at what appeared to be a long, gentle slope consisting of grayish, thick looking ice. It ramped to an abrupt dropoff, marked by a rounded silver shell about the size of a house, studded with pinpoints of softly glowing green lights.  
  
"I have to see inside," Straker murmured, large blue eyes burning with an inner fire. The astonishment that he'd felt upon spying his first Ufo back when he worked for NASA had never faded with uneven familiarity, the shocked realization that humans were not alone in the universe, the dismay that, rather than friends, they were bound to fight their first extraterrestrial visitors for survival itself.  
  
Allowing himself only this fleeting moment, he traced again the spherical configuration of the craft, the tubular projections that marked the weapons. The primary nozzle was bent and charred; perhaps the main laser was damaged beyond use?  
  
From where he lay he couldn't see the access in the craft's bottom, though his imagination filled it in as an inviting door to unbound knowledge, power ... and victory. "We will win," he growled, fingers digging in to his purchase, then pushing decidedly off to continue his mission. He flash remembered hunting other men in another war so many years ago. Those killing fields had been snow capped as well, though the war with Mongolia had never developed into full scale conflagration; had it done so the world might have ended without outside help. Now as then, his military mind was focussed, following a quicksilver trail to his chosen target. That must come first before the intelligence gathering could continue.  
  
He took one last reconnaissance look around the field, having to make a quick snatch on the ice when his base crumbled suddenly beneath him. He couldn't see Alec Freeman; naturally, since Freeman too would be travelling undercover. Briefly, Straker thought about his friend, drawing comfort from the fact that the fierce Welsh intelligence agent was backing him. During a friendship spanning two decades, he'd found Freeman to be utterly reliable, and nearly as ruthless as Straker himself when a task needed accomplished.  
  
He continued his spider-like trip, using hands as efficiently as feet to traverse the rocks. A daring glance at his watch showed the time to be nearly 16:15; it would soon be time for Foster to fire off the rocket gun. He needed to have the alien covered by then or all could be lost. He hoped Paul was up to the task; he hadn't been in fighting trim when they'd left him. There was no real worry, though; he'd known the young man for less than two years but, but in that time had grown to trust his abilities completely.  
  
Straker was starting to puff seriously by the time he'd reached his estimated point of sniper range. The rocks had grown more slippery, parts of the slope now comprised of solid ice. Once more he climbed, this time forced to extend his arms straight over his head and jump into space, hooking his fingers over to top and hanging his full weight. "Come ... on ... Ed," he grunted, biceps bulging under his coat. A deep breath, a heave, and he'd reached the semi-security of a tiny niche at the peak, just large enough for him to kneel. "Gotta ... hit the gym ... more often," he gasped, expanding his chest several times. The arctic air burned his lungs, forcing a muffled cough, but it cleared his head, the cobwebs temporarily banished by the extra oxygen.  
  
Thus renewed, he unlimbered the oddly shaped G-57 rifle off his shoulder, flopping on his stomach and flipping up the dual sights. Foster was right, he reflected, the G-57's aren't made for sniper fire. But the only Armalite they'd carried had been in Mobile delta, the wreckage of which had finally burned out. There was a comforting weight to the weapon, however, the knowledge that its stopping power was fourteen times that of the Armalite and would puncture the armor of a tank. The transmitted shock from a simple graze would end the battle at once.  
  
He sighted along the barrel at the gray-and-red suited figure in the very hollow of the wind-carved valley. The alien invader was still examining the wreckage of delta, scattered pieces of equipment having been tossed haphazardly across the snow. It's helmeted head was down now concentration focussed on the barely recognizable shape it was extracting from the still searing hot metal.  
  
A body, Straker realized with sick horror. Either Chapman or Mehdi. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, and firmed his grip on the rifle, drawing a bead on the precise middle of his target's back. His marksman's eye had already calculated the distance and angles, disclosing to him the fact that he would never be able to hit the creature from his position -- the range was too great. Movement caught his eye from directly across the field, and he squinted until he could make out the barely visible form of Alec Freeman only as a brown smear against gray white ice. It's got to be Alec's shot.  
  
As though on cue a muffled report rang out from the direction of the one remaining snowcat. The alien jerked upright, turning toward the sound, then rose straight up into the air, flying backward several meters only a fraction ahead of the second, louder crack of a rifleshot. There was a pause, then Freeman stood up, waving the rifle in signal before starting down the slope. He was going to ensure the kill.  
  
Straker nodded invisibly to his companion, leaving it to him to check though there was no uncertainty at all but that the alien was dead. A single glance showed no was down from his own position, and he reversed his direction, retracing his route on the treacherous slopes back toward the mobile. Ten minutes sweating, cursing journey finally afforded him a more shallow grade into the hollow, and he took it gratefully, sliding down the ice and achieving ground level without incident.  
  
His new course took him within meters of the U.F.O.; from this vantage he could see the open portal dimly backlit. He approached cautiously, drawn by a siren call from within, a burning hunger reigniting in his gut to see what lay beyond.  
  
'Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!' he quoted with a thrill. 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here.' Posted at the gates of hell itself. Maybe not too inappropriate.  
  
As he got closer he became aware that the surface upon which he walked was less solid than the crystallized water he'd trodden earlier; to a distance of about twenty feet from the door, the snow was impregnated with an odd green fluid only now starting to gel in the arctic cold. Curious, he knelt, scooping some up and bringing it closer to his face. At first glance it seemed to be the same type fluid that the aliens used inside their spacesuits. "Maybe it spilled out when they opened the door?" he asked aloud, continuing his journey. "If so, maybe their airlock was damaged in the crash?"  
  
Obviously true. By now he'd reached the ship itself. Both sections of the double hatch were indeed open, the inner one to a width of two feet, the outer fully retracted into the hull. Looks warped, too, he thought, giving the second an experimental tug. To his astonishment, the entire panel gave way, falling forward and forcing him to scramble out of the way. It landed with a little poof in the snow, crackled as though filled with an electric charge, then disintegrated.  
  
Dismay filled Straker's face even as he forced himself back into motion. "Ship's been exposed to atmosphere too long. Once the shields go around its power supply, the whole thing will blow."  
  
Filled with a new sense of urgency, Straker peeked through the access and, sensing no movement from within, entered, eyes darting in all directions. His heart beat faster, adrenaline filling his veins at this first look at extraterrestrial technology. He sniffed, then sneezed as his nostrils filled with a fetid odor, reminding him of rot and decay. He steeled his stomach to ignore the stench and look around, blue eyes growing wide with wonder. The chamber in which he found himself was circular, about twelve feet in diameter, the walls covered with an assortment of light panels grouped in pyramid configurations. The center of the room was dominated by what appeared to be a control console, eight feet high and ten paces around, studded with more of the light panels and irregularly spaced with what appeared to be monitors. There was neither seat nor provision for comfort from what Straker could see, nor any window.  
  
With growing excitement he circled the chamber, part of him noting that everything was wet and sticky, his boots squishing when he walked. "So their ships are fluid filled," he remarked, idly running his finger across the nearest panel, then rubbing the ooze off onto his jacket. "But how do they prevent a vortex from the high velocity revolutions when they travel? They'd be plastered to the walls every minute."  
  
There was no immediate answer to be found. He scratched his ear thoughtfully and neared the central command console, staring hard at the monitors. Colors swam in seemingly uncoordinated patterns, shapes vague and meaningless. He turned his head until he was focussing on the far wall and examining the monitors only with his peripheral vision; they almost made sense then, less picture than impression. Finally, he shook his head. "Are alien eyes that much different than human?" he wondered in a murmur. "Their eyes are human, as near as we can tell. Maybe they're just not tuned right."  
  
To test this theory, he touched one of the light panels under the nearest monitor. There were six of them, also in pyramid configuration, each colored a different hue and scaled for human touch. He pressed one and waited; nothing happened. The monitor continued to show its slow swirl meaningless swirl. He splayed his fingers trying two, then three, then all at once. Still nothing. Growing frustrated, he left his hand where it was, and bit his lip, thinking furiously. If not the sensors, maybe these are used to move the ship.  
  
The lights he was touching changed from multi-colored to a solid block of red; something shuddered deep inside the ship, a panel popping free from the ceiling and nearly hitting Straker before it reduced to powder. Alarmed, he snatched his hand away, clutching it to his chest; the shuddering stopped and the lights returned to normal. "That was interesting," he breathed, shaken to the core. He took a deep breath, and directed his attention to the hole left by the fallen panel. There were what looked like wires revealed, clear and about the diameter of a pencil; they looked to be conducting a clear blue fluid from and to points unknown.  
  
"Could their whole technology be fluid based?" he wondered aloud. He watched the wires and touched the panel again; this time nothing happened. "What made it react? I thought it might move the ship...."  
  
Once again something shuddered, and he released the panel and stepped back, mystified. Giving up on the central console, he wandered the room. There was nothing recognizable: some levers, mostly more colored light panels. When he reached the side of the chamber opposite the entrance he found one light set off by itself in a small recess; he touched it gingerly. "Move the ship ... or something?" he vocalized hopefully.  
  
The effect was not what he expected. A low whining noise filled the chamber, its origin deep within the wall itself., There was a click and the recess plus a six foot section of the wall suddenly slid open. For a split second Straker found himself staring slack jawed at a solid green wall, then the surface tension broke and he was being slammed backwards on a thundering green tidalwave. Air was forced from his lungs by the impact, the weight driving him backward into the central column. He struck it headfirst, the point of impact emitting a nova blast of light before going momentarily dark.  
  
Light returned after seconds, and with it the realization that someone was poking his chest. Straker blinked, starting violently when his vision cleared to reveal expressionless, milky eyes set in green skin not inches from his face. Unruffled, the alien stared calmly back. As a human, the woman might have been attractive, for she had lush dark hair and perfect bone structure. Now deep wrinkles were beginning to appear in the forehead and cheeks, the result of the rapid aging brought on by exposure to Earth's atmosphere. For several seconds the only movement from either was the rapid opening and closing of the creature's mouth not unlike a landed fish, and Straker noticed then that it did not wear a helmet. Without the oxygenated green fluid, it could not survive long.  
  
He panted a protest when the once-female hooked claw-like fingers in his jacket and dragging him to his feet. They were of a height, and Straker caught his breath at the look in those inhuman eyes -- emotionless, without pity or empathy. Panicked, he erupted into action, bringing up his fist and landing it against the female's mouth. Her head snapped back, but his weight had not been behind the punch and she did not go down. Still gripping his jacket, she spun, slamming Straker back against the central column again with bruising force. Once, twice his back, shoulder and head struck unyielding metal. The third time he went slack, unable to gather strength to resist.  
  
Sensing the fight was temporarily over, the alien dragged him physically through the new access into the next chamber beyond, Straker sliding easily on the wet floor. Making a little gasping noise, it hauled him physically up onto what appeared to be a combination pallet-equipment bank, snapping first his wrists then his ankles in metal vises.  
  
"Don't do this!" Straker blinked at the blood trailing into his face from the reopened head wound. His voice was raspy, and contained a pleading note he couldn't immediately as his own. "You-you were human once. Don't you remember that?"  
  
There was no reaction, from the alien. Without so much as glancing at him, it donned a metallic gray suit, then snapped on a helmet with a bottle attachment not unlike one of SHADO's own spacesuits. A twist of a valve and the helmet filled with green fluid, dimming but not obscuring the woman's face from view. She/it then turned back to Straker and reached for the zipper on his jacket.  
  
For one of the few times in his life panic welled within Straker, blotting out sight, sound and thought, then the supreme irony of the situation presented itself. He struggled vainly against the metal clamps as gloved alien fingers undid both jacket and shirt, flinching away from the cold metal nozzles which pressed against his chest. "It's going to ship me back," Straker realized, fighting the urge to laugh aloud. "It's trying to make me one of them."  
  
***  
  
Alec waited until Straker has acknowledged his wave before slinging the rifle across one shoulder and beginning his own trip down to the valley floor. It was a less difficult climb than the one the other man was facing, his side consisting of a gentler slope and more rock than ice. He needed to use the screwdriver cum pickax only twice to slow his downward slide, but he arrived at the bottom unscathed. He slipped the screwdriver into his belt and regripped the rifle, keeping it trained on the body; the alien looked dead -- probably was -- but Colonel Alec Freeman was far too experienced a soldier to take unnecessary chances.  
  
If truth be told, it was more than precaution that drove him across the crusted snow toward his fallen foe. He was also curious to examine the body closely, and not only to ensure that it was dead. Freeman lived with the secret dread that someday he was going to remove one of those fluid filled helmets and recognize the once-human inside -- something that had not happened since the war had begun to be fought in earnest, at least, not in toto. DNA identification had been able to put a name to one single body part -- a heart -- belonging to a relative of a SHADO operative. In Freeman's opinion, however, it was only a matter of time before other remains were identified. A friend. Relative. Lover. A comrade staring back through dead, film covered eyes. How much more horrible would that recognition be than the anonymous unter menschen to be shot down without a pang of regret.  
  
The Welsh intelligence officer fought back the taste of bile, fists tightening on the rifle as he steeled himself for the unveiling. According to their scientists' best guesses, at the speed the alien ships travelled, it probably took several months real time to make the journey through the vast reaches of space from the alien homeworld to Earth. Subjectively for the pilots, travelling at Sol eight plus -- eight times the speed of light -- a much longer time must have elapsed, possibly many decades, to account for the rapid aging once they'd left their antigerontological fluid environment. Freeman didn't know. Hyperspace theory was not his specialty. Humanity was.  
  
Every nerve tingled as he neared the body, a muscle beginning to twitch in his jaw. He risked a glance around but didn't see his friend; either Straker was still travelling on the other side of the ridge, or the uneven terrain was hiding him from view. Either way, Freeman would have felt better with maintained visual contact; the buddy system had saved both their lives in the past.  
  
Fluid leaked slowly from a jagged hole in the negative environment suit, staining the snow a sickly shade of peasoup green. A box-shaped gauge of some kind lay by the creature's gloved hand, blinking serenely in the twilight. Freeman kicked it out of reach, then bent awkwardly and turned the body over, staring hard at the face through the clear visor. It was hard to see much in the fading light, but the slack face conveyed the impression of extreme youth, maybe even teenage years. Unlined features that might have belonged to a boy lay swimming in fluid, a shock of light hair spilling forward over the forehead. Both relieved that the lad was unknown to him and appalled at the waste of childhood, it took several seconds for Freeman to note one important fact: milky eyes lay open behind the faceplate and were even now staring back at him.  
  
With a smothered gasp he reared back, not fast enough to avoid the crude punch that caught him flush in the face. He spilled onto his side, losing his grip on the rifle, instinct alone scooting him backward out of range of a follow-up blow that might have crushed his skull had it landed. The alien's fist whistled harmlessly by, even as Freeman fought to regather his scattered wits. The gun! he thought, watching with dismay the creature pick the weapon up. Rather than aim and fire, it swung the stock in a wide arc. It missed Freeman by inches, slamming into a buried rock. Wood splintered from metal barrel, dropping into the snow, and the alien advanced on the still sprawled human, arms outstretched.  
  
Alec rolled clumsily to his feet, retreating step-by-step toward mobile zeta. "Now look," he blustered, holding both hands defensively in front of him. "Can't we talk this over?" Apparently not. In eerie silence the creature continued to come, features expressionless behind the glass. In desperation, Alec tried the offensive, swinging a powerful right into his opponent's midsection, then following up with a left cross that terminated under the helmet seal in a rough approximation of the larynx. The alien doubled over but did not fall; rather, it brought both arms around and together, catching Freeman in a bearhug hold that would have done Hulk Hogan credit. They rolled together in the snow, locked in fatal embrace. Freeman, skilled in the art of judo, brought his left arm across to break his opponent's grip, while twisting his body violently in the opposite direction, winning his freedom. He kicked out, forcing the other away, and gained his feet.  
  
"Better ... part of ... valor," he panted, turning to run. The alien stood between him and the relative safety of Mobile gamma, but if he could circle the ridge and make his approach from behind, he had a chance at reaching shelter before it could cut him off. Hope the boy has gamma rightside, he thought desperately. We may need her cannon before this is through.  
  
Until now for simple ease of travel, he and Straker had kept as close as possible to the tread marks mobile gamma had made, and Freeman could trace the long, curving course neatly paralleled by zeta's caterpillar treads. Even after descending from the rim, Alec had made a beeline for the tamped down snow, using those tracks to travel close to where the body lay. Now he left the area altogether, heading on an angle cross-country in the general direction of the valley's maw. It was a kilometer away, perhaps -- an impossible distance for an exhausted man running in the drifting snow. But the human targeted it as a beginning; the course would change the moment the alien was angled far enough and bogged down deep enough for Freeman to make it back to the [hopefully] working snowcat. If he didn't tire he would most certainly reach the nearest ridge; a climb should certainly be easier for him that for the bulkily clad alien.  
  
It was within sixty seconds of making this optimistic plan that he felt something give slightly under his boot. Puzzled, he skidded, trying to stop despite the respectable forward velocity he'd achieved. ... Too late! Ice, snow and footing gave way beneath him, a full thirty foot section of assumed ground vanishing in an instant. The loosely packed snow must have been gathering for months, delicately balanced on whatever fragile bridge had supported it over the hidden crevasse. It had never been designed to support a running man however, and it collapsed now, precipitating him into open space. Clawing fingers grabbed a projecting piece of rock ... slipped ... held, long enough for him to pry the screwdriver from his belt. He could hear ice shattering against rocks far below even as footsteps crunched closer, the enemy nearly upon him.  
  
"Not ... done ... yet," he grunted, gripping the screwdriver firmly. He pulled back, then slammed it home in the ice, transferring his weight cautiously from his left hand just as it slid free of its tenuous perch. He dropped a grand total of nine inches, frozen sweat breaking out when the screwdriver wobbled. It held his weight, however, while his feet scrabbled for purchase against the icy canyon face. He calmed with an effort, concentrating his senses downward, locating a minuscule niche in the ice just large enough for the toe of his boot. It too held his weight and he sighed with relief as the strain was temporarily removed from his right shoulder. "Easy climb," he encouraged himself, lifting his head to forestall his accidentally looking down.  
  
He looked up ... and up, past trampled white, following the gray X-E suit to the helmeted face. The youth stood on the very brink of the precipice, staring dispassionately down at Alec Freeman as one might an amoeba. "Bloody cannibals!" he yelled, impotence mixing with rage to bring a raspy scream from his throat. "Earth belongs to us! D'ya hear?"  
  
If so, it made no reaction. The invader stared at him a moment longer, then shifted its weight backward, lifting one boot and positioning it high over Freeman's head; a single kick would be sufficient to send the human flying into space to a certain death on the rocks below. It held the pose for a long moment, while Alec prepared for death.  
  
The explosion was unexpected -- violent -- loud enough to dwarf into insignificance both the rifles' discharges and Foster's firing of the rocket propelled pitons. More, it came from the direction of the Ufo. Startled out of its impassivity, the alien being jerked around toward its transport, leg flailing in midair. Freeman saw his chance -- the only one he was likely to get. Exerting every muscle to the full, he heaved himself upward fully two feet, wrapping his fingers around the other's booted ankle and pulling with every iota of weight and strength at his command. Off balance, the creature windmilled its arms frantically but was unable to fight the inevitable effects of gravity. It made a perfect swan dive into open space, beginning a rolling tumble that ended with a thud on the rocks below.  
  
Alec Freeman squeezed his eyes closed at the sound. Muscles trembling with fatigue, he pushed himself up those critical additional inches, bellyflopping onto terra firma and turning around until he could hitch one eye over the rim. Far below -- farther than he cared to think -- a gray- and-red figure lay sprawled on a colorless boulder, leaking bubbling green fluid from a dozen different rents. Freeman shuddered and inched away from the edge, only then remembering the explosion that had distracted the alien from its final killing blow. "The Ufo!" he gasped, making it to his knees with an effort. He struggled to stand, shielding his eyes in an attempt at seeing the alien spaceship from his current position. The area it once occupied was easy to spot -- it consisted of a blackened hole in the glacier wall, scattered shards of glowing metal ... and nothing more.  
  
"Was Ed in the area of that blast?" he breathed, brown eyes growing wide. "If he decided to go inside...." Thought ended and he began to run, drawing on reserves long spent, not knowing if he was going to find the remains of his friend in the wreckage from another planet.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
Foster remained by the tunnel until Freeman's boots disappeared skyward, then moved forward, peering out the mobile's front windscreen. Slithering around the rear of the tipped vehicle, neither Straker nor Freeman were visible from his view, but he was able to follow their progress by the scrabbling noise they made against the metal sides. The noises ceased as they left the relative shelter of the vehicle, but Paul remained still, head tilted up, 'watching' them in his mind's eye until they'd disappeared over the peak.  
  
His legs felt like the proverbial rubber, and, recognizing a sit-down-or- fall-down situation when he encountered one, the young pilot perched sideways on the arm of the bolted-down chair Alec Freeman had occupied on the way up. From this position he could still see out the window, his range of view embracing the U.F.O. and, at a sharp angle, the wreckage of zeta. The air was utterly still inside the mobile, not even the constant moan of the arctic wind penetrating its armored walls. He hadn't noticed how quiet it was when the others had been present, but now, without their companionship, he felt very alone. This reaction puzzled him. He was a combat soldier, trained to operate independently; why was he feeling so lost now?  
  
"Foster, Colonel Paul J., number 804." He said the words aloud, emphasizing his rank, using it to reinforce the psychological conditioning he'd received in the military, to solidify the steel nerve that had combined with a brilliant tactical mind to make him a crack test pilot and the youngest command officer SHADO had ever had.  
  
The self-encouragement worked somewhat, bolstering his resolve if not his energy. He leaned his head awkwardly against the seat back, a wave of dizziness taking him without warning. The concept that serious injuries mixed with the shock of having lost good friends violently would account for this uncharacteristic feeling of vulnerability in any normal human being was dismissed instantly as an excuse. There was no room for weakness in war, and it was a war they fought, make no mistake about it. Needing a diversion, he focused on tugging his sleeve up until he could again see his watch. It was a harder task than one might expect -- with his right arm completely useless, he had to use his teeth to pull the bulky material up over his wrist. He managed after some seconds, watching the digital display change from second to second then to the minute. The Commander and Alec had been gone less than four minutes; fifteen-plus to go. Considering how clumsy he was with only one arm, he decided to get started on his own task now -- it was going to take him the bulk of the remaining time to get into position.  
  
Decided, he struggled out of the chair, forcing his leaden legs to carry him back to the open exit. With two good arms he would have had no problem climbing the relatively steep incline to the outside; with only one, it was a daunting task indeed. Resigned, he took a deep breath and shimmied headfirst into the tunnel; snow tumbled onto his bare face and in his collar, trailing icy fingers down each vertebra. He cursed, wishing he'd taken the time to find another ski mask or at least pull his hood up, but wasted no more energy on regrets than that. Digging his toes into the packed snow and pushing himself forward an inch at a time, it took several minutes before his head topped the tunnel, exposing him to the full effects of the exterior. The wind hit first, a physical blow, searing his lungs and making it impossible to draw a deep breath. Despite the cold weather gear SHADO suppliers swore would keep him comfortable through temperatures of -60oF, he began to shiver again, only stubborn determination preventing him from sliding down into the metal womb he'd just quitted and letting the relative peace lull him back into merciful slumber.  
  
Using his good hand as a brace, he scrambled out of the hole, glancing at the nearly invisible lines attached to the upper side of the mobile in a crude pulley arrangement. One of them trailed down to a black metal object lying on top of the snow -- the rocket propelled grenade launcher already set up with a piton instead of ball-shaped mini-missile. As near as Paul could tell, it was ready to fire just as Straker had promised. He crawled a bit closer to it then stopped, remaining flat behind the shelter of the nearest drift. It cut the wind somewhat, the main advantage being that it also shielded him from view of anyone in the Ufo. Thus situated, he first pulled up his hood, then rechecked his watch. Four minutes.  
  
Unable to see anything from where he was, he contented himself with pillowing his head on the hood's fleece lining, extending his hearing to the full and trying not to think of how miserable he felt. If anything, he hurt worse than before as his damaged muscles stiffened, and the pounding behind his eyes had now adopted the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Sleep would have been very nice, though he was very glad he hadn't eaten when Jocko had offered.  
  
Jocko. Pain stabbed at the thought of the friendly Jamaican, this time centering in his heart. Since joining SHADO eighteen months ago, Paul Foster had gained many comrades-in-arms - stalwart men and women with whom he had not one hesitance about trusting his own life. What was lacking, however, especially in the upper command echelons, was the opportunity to make close friends. The very nature of their military structure discouraged if not forbade that. But Jocko Duval had been the exception - a man you could relax with despite rank, easy going and humorous without losing one iota of professionalism. The perfect counterpoint to Foster's deadly serious demeanor, not unlike the way Alec Freeman balanced Straker.  
  
An image insisted on flashing across the viewscreen of his closed eyelids: Jocko Duval as Paul had first met him. The short Jamaican had been in full spacesuit with attendant gear, doing a preflight check on the lunar module at its planetside base near Leicester. He'd waited until Freeman had made the formal introductions, then broken into a wide, welcoming smile. "Don' you worry, mon!" he'd said, slapping Paul on the shoulder. "I train you up real good, like mah own little brother. Then you, Colonel, Sir, treat Jocko good once you got duh rank!"  
  
The joke had made the wary student feel instantly relaxed, and the training had progressed smoothly from that point on. Foster sighed. Jocko Duval would be missed -- was missed. Loss caught him again, though, Foster reflected, he was getting better at suppressing his feelings if not dismissing them. He'd been too young to fight in the war with Mongolia and hadn't had a lot of battle experience despite extensive training, before coming to SHADO. Simulations could never teach you to distance yourself from those who might soon be lost. Straker had obviously learned that lesson well, either in the Chinese conflict or later, fighting aliens. Paul wished he could be more like him. Then maybe losing people wouldn't hurt so much.  
  
Idly, Foster wondered if Lieutenant Ayshea Johnson would be sorry Jocko was gone, then realized his mind was wandering -- a dangerous thing in combat. He swallowed and pulled himself together, opening his eyes and looking again at his watch. Thirty seconds. Time to go.  
  
With a test pilot's judgement and cool eye, he calculated the angle from the line attach point to the wall of rock and ice, hefting the grenade launcher in his left hand to get its feel. Being right handed was a drawback but not an insurmountable one, requiring only that he concentrate. He chose his mark, taking careful aim and hoping fervently that the charge would implant the metal rod rather than blowing his arm off.  
  
He checked his watch again, watching the digital hit the 16:55:00 mark, then fired the rocket propelled gunHave someone set up grenade launcher, take grenade apart, use explosive , trusting Straker's estimation that they would be covering the alien by then. The detonation of expanding gasses was both louder and quieter than he had expected; the initial blast was near deafening though it was quickly eaten up in the surrounding snow, and Paul wondered if they had worried in vain about the sound carrying as far as the alien. His answer came at once, the flat, sharp report of rifle fire. The terrain was deceptive, for the echo itself translated through the frozen medium, carrying clearly across the circular valley to him even as he felt the piton smack home in the rock.  
  
A little puff rose from the point of impact. The London born pilot dropped the pistol and caught the line, throwing his weight backwards; neither line nor piton so much as quivered. "Should do it," he muttered, next reaching for the automatic winch. It was a simple affair, a small, battery operated motor connected to a reel. Foster took a deep breath. "Hope that does it," then pushed the ON button. The motor caught, humming mechanically to itself. The steel cable shortened, grew taut ... the piton held, and suddenly Foster found his footing disappearing out from under him. Banked snow cascaded inward when the snowcat shifted, the powerful little motor pulling it physically upright; the hum shifted to a low whine as it continued to drag the vehicle sideways, managing four full inches despite the weight. With no more warning than that, Foster found himself lying sprawled across the steep incline of the snowcat's nose like a dead dear, and the air was filled with a burning smell as the winch overstressed and went silent.  
  
"Th-that did do it." The phrase seemed unduly amusing and he laughed softly, barely sensing the shock induced hysteria that loomed barely beneath the fringes of his control. From his position atop the snowcat he had a clear view of the U.F.O. against the glacier; he could see something else as well -- a human figure in a light blue parka disappearing inside an aperture in the aircraft's side. He grinned, feeling unaccountably better for the sight. "Commander going to get a look-see after all."  
  
Such a possibility for himself was no longer in Foster's thoughts. His arm was on fire, vitriol tracing from the broken bones into his shoulder, throbbing in rhythm with the ache behind his eyes. Pain erupted like a starburst with his first attempt at sitting up, then faded with his vision behind a muslin veil. Some part of him discerned that he was sliding helplessly from the cab, though the collision with the ground went unfelt, swallowed up as it was by all-encompassing black.  
  
It must have been many minutes later that he came to. His first semi- rational thought was that he was going blind, for his world consisted of shadow on white. He turned his head slightly, realizing that his problem was that he was lying face down in the snow, and that the sun had well and truly dipped behind the rim of rocks sheltering this tiny bowl cut out of volcanic earth. His second thought was that he'd actually been more comfortable unconscious. The desire to retreat from the pain was tempting, but training and determination kicked in then, forcing his head up. The snowcat was as he'd left it, half-in, half-out of the blast pit, supported by the taut cable. He spat snow out of his mouth and rolled awkwardly into a sitting position, leaning his back against its metal side. Can't afford to pass out again, he admonished firmly, fighting to focus. We're not safe yet.  
  
Using the 'cat as support, he climbed up onto the treads, inching his way back into the cabin. With a grateful sigh he collapsed into the operator's seat, panting noisily for several minutes, then composed himself and pressed the starter; the powerful engines roared to life. "Thank you," he breathed, putting the vehicle into gear. The treads engaged at once, biting into solid ground. There was a tug as the steel cable tore loose, then he was accelerating, making a straight course for the U.F.O.  
  
Foster glanced down at his board, cursing the handicap of having only one working arm. "Weapons," he muttered, risking releasing the steering long enough to tap the joystick control. From above the cabin he could see the single short turret obediently swivel to the right, then back on line with the enemy ship. The press of a green button far to the left produced the low 'Click' of the failsafe being removed and a shell being injected into the chamber. "Armed," Foster said with satisfaction, confidence flowing back. "Now we've got a fighting chance."  
  
He'd travelled roughly half the distance to his target when he felt something give under the port treads; he cut power instantly, bringing the vehicle to a stop. Snow's hiding something, he thought, watching with some fascination as a twenty meter section of snow quivered. Maybe another hole. He was close enough not to worry, though; from this range it would require only a few blasts of 20mm high explosive to reduce the alien ship to shards. At least, I could, he qualified with a degree of worry, if the Commander wasn't inside.  
  
The side hatch was still open, arctic air pouring into the cabin; he shivered, debating getting up and closing the door, but the effort required at using the manual flywheel was almost too great to contemplate much less accomplish. He leaned his head back against the seat, taking a gulp of the freezing air, forcing his attention back under control. In this state of exhausted anticipation he waited, craning his neck occasionally to the right, seeking any sign of the returning Alec Freeman. Unfortunately, the landscape remained stubbornly quiescent.  
  
"Where are they?" He chewed his lip, watching for several minutes, then sat bolt upright at the first almost subliminal quiver more sensed than felt. He frowned, blue eyes darting around the cabin; they widened when the vibration was repeated, stronger this time, its origin clear. "It's coming from the Ufo!" He stared, again straining his faculties for any evidence it was about to become airborne, but after sixty seconds with no further sign of activity, he began to breathe again, wracking his brains for some explanation. "It must have been exposed to atmosphere earlier than we thought!" he blurted, realization followed by an adrenal rush that brought him clear out of the seat. After exposure to Earth's atmosphere, the disintegration of a U.F.O. came suddenly ... and explosively.  
  
Badly worried now, he made his way to the open hatch and peered out. There was still no sign of Freeman, nor had Straker reappeared from the alien craft. "Commander!" His yell echoed only faintly from the curve of the glacier face. He waited, listening, but there was no reply.  
  
Warrior's instincts sent a chill down his spine having no relation to the sub-zero cold, and he debated less than a half-minute before opening the miniature armory panel and selecting a Browning High Power from its rack. He would have preferred a rifle of the type Straker and Freeman carried, but, even if there had been one left, he knew he would not have been able to handle it one-handed. He stuck it into his belt while he laboriously climbed out of the mobile, then regripped it. His hands were frozen, numb, but he forced his fingers around the butt, using his thumb to disengage the safety. He wasn't as good a shot as Straker, but he could well hit a target and the deadly Browning would take care of the rest.  
  
A circuitous route to the alien ship was impossible -- as before, everything seemed to be getting farther away, and blurred at the edges. Foster squinted to focus, choosing a straight line to target, supremely aware of the spindly alien laser situated near its rounded top. Green fluid extended in a wide arc around the front, some of it vaporizing, the rest having already achieved a half gelled state from the cold. He frowned at it but did not slow his pace until he'd reached the open access port. Cautiously he peeked inside, a second hail already taking form. He aborted it before it could be uttered, intuition again kicking in to keep him silent. There's someone here. There had been neither movement nor sound from within, yet there was no question in his mind but that it was so. He clutched the pistol more securely, lips compressed, eyes narrowed. New energy filled him with this nearness to combat, banishing the fatigue on a wave of adrenaline fuel.  
  
Warily, silently, he made his way into the first chamber, stepping lightly to avoid making a sloshing noise in the ankle deep, boiling fluid covering the floor. His gaze darted side to side, studying the compartment for potential threat. He was just passing the central console that had so intrigued Straker when a minuscule noise from beyond made him pause. It took a moment for him to identify the sound that as a human voice, low and filled with an almost crazed fury.Ski mask gone-St's scene  
  
"I'm not the last," Commander Ed Straker was saying in a tone Foster had never heard from him before - there was blazing rage in the cultured tones, a hatred unutterable in SHADO's confines. "They'll be others to end your threat forever!"  
  
That was enough. In a rush Foster burst through the open panel, flash scanning the situation in a fraction of a second. Ski mask gone, parka open to the waist, Straker lay spreadeagled to a flat operating table under a battery of instrumentation the very sight of which made Foster shudder. What appeared to be a metal shell casing sat to the side of the table, the type the aliens used to pack their human specimens for shipment to their homeworld. The alien itself, in full space suit, bent over Straker's supine form, a long metal probe poised over the human's bare chest.  
  
"No," Paul whispered, horrified. The enemy was blocked by a piece of overhanging equipment; Foster took a step forward, trusting the element of surprise to bring him into proper firing angle before it could use that probe. The plan worked ... though not the way Foster had expected. He'd made it only a couple of meters before a creaking noise started in the ceiling; it was followed only a fraction later by several heavy metal panels unhinging from their mooring. One wobbled, then crashed down on Foster's unprotected form, knocking him to his knees, red agony exploding in his arm.  
  
"Paul!"  
  
Straker's yell penetrated the ruby haze only barely, but it was enough. Foster followed the sound back to awareness, blinking his vision clear. He swallowed hard, staying on his knees and using every effort to lift the gun, centering it on the space suited chest that was even now moving toward him. "Hold it." The words came out a growl, probably unintelligible to the invader, but the gesture of the gun was universal. The alien -- Foster could see that it was a woman -- stopped midstep, studying him clinically. There was no expression visible through the visor. The two, Foster and the once-human, regarded each other over the space of several feet ... and a hundred light years, then the woman started forward again. "Don't move!" Foster's last warning was followed by a twitch of his finger on the trigger; the resultant report was a loud blast, ear splitting in the confined quarters. A hole appeared in the alien's chest dead center even as the slender figure was hurled backwards. Spacesuit and body collapsed into a heap.  
  
Paul spent several seconds staring at the body, adrenaline wearing off suddenly even as the ship began to shake, more violently than before. Straker's frantic yell penetrated again, forcing his concentration back to the blond American, who was struggling furiously to get free. "Paul!" he yelled, craning his neck to see the younger man. "You've got to get me loose!"  
  
Completely spent now, Foster hooked the arm still bearing the gun across a crosspiece on the table and hauled himself wearily to his feet. "Are you all right, Commander?" he asked, tugging one handed at the wrist strap, trying to ignore the continued shaking in the ship.  
  
Straker winced as another metal panel dropped from the ceiling, crashing on an instrument panel to their left. He gulped, his own light blue eyes wide with dread. "I'm a lot better now. Get me loose. This ship is going to blow any minute." "We ... knew... there was only a small window after exposure," Foster gasped, giving up. He wiped his eyes free of sweat and bit his lip. There didn't seem to be any obvious way of opening the manacles holding the man to the table. Foster studied the situation briefly, then chose an oddly shaped mechanism midpoint between Straker's wrists. He aimed the Browning, held his breath, and fired off a round into the unit. There was a click and the handcuffs snapped open.  
  
"Good work, Paul." Straker sat up, rubbing circulation back into them while Foster freed his ankles in the same way, then then he swung both feet over the side, dabbing blood out of his reopened cut eyes on his sleeve. "We'd better get out of here." He slid off the table, supporting himself briefly on Foster's shoulder when his numbed legs refused to support him. The younger man braced himself as best he could, but his own strength had long since exceeded his limits; his knees buckled and only Straker's quick snatch prevented him from dropping them both to the floor. "Lean on me," the blond ordered, though he was none too steady himself. Foster had no choice but to obey; the ship was crumbling in earnest now, wiring dangling from the ceiling and spouting fluid like blood. Even as they watched, one of the light boards in the wall fell inward, crumbling to dust.  
  
Straker's supporting arm under his shoulders, Foster stumbled toward the exit. The outer chamber was crossed in a half-dozen strides, then they were out under the open sky. "It's gonna go," Straker urged him when Foster stumbled in the snow. "We have to make it to the mobile." The younger man nodded, breathless, concentrated on increasing his speed, the security of the snowcat a tantalizingly near goal. They didn't make it.  
  
The explosion came when they were twenty yards out. The flare came first, a nova bright light that turned twilight to high noon. Foster felt himself being picked up as though by a giant child, flung into the air. He had the impression of both height and speed, then dropped, landing in mercifully cushioning snow after an eternity in flight. Something landed beside him even as shrapnel rode the thunder that echoed from the surrounding hill ridge. Then it was gone and there was only silence and blessed blackness.  
  
"Paul?" The words brought him back slowly, as though following a single thread in the labyrinth. Awareness widened, and Foster felt gentle hands turning him over. He opened his eyes to see a pair of concerned blue ones peering down, for once stripped of their emotionless mask. "Paul, thank God. I thought...." Straker gulped, wobbled back on his heels. He expanded his chest, drawing in a deep breath, and when he again met Foster's gaze he had regained some tattered remnants of his control. Emotional distance, Foster thought, but something inside his chest warmed anyway.  
  
"Hoy!"  
  
"Alec?" Straker's head snapped up, his mask again fleeing before elation. His lips twitched a welcoming smile as the Welshman appeared panting so tired that he staggered. "Alec, you old Mongol-fighter! What kept you?"  
  
Freeman's laugh choked into a wheeze. He slid to his knees, pawing off the skimask, brown eyes flicking worriedly to the still dazed Foster. "Bit ... of a clean-up," he panted. "How's the boy?"  
  
"He's fine and I'm glad to have you back." Straker slapped his shoulder heartily, frowned, and tipped his head back to follow a loud roar from overhead. "That sounds like Sky-1!"  
  
"Little late for the party," Freeman grumbled, looking not the slightest bit put out.  
  
Straker gave him a rare grin, then slid an arm under Foster's shoulders, his voice growing kind. "Let's get you back to the mobile, Paul. It's time to go home."  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
Pickup occurred precisely forty-one minutes later. It was a tricky affair but no longer impossible. The miniature blizzard had indeed moved out of the area, taking with it most of the high winds, though enough blew off the mountains to make flying in the area a veritable adventure. Unable to land on the unstable ice pack, the helicopter, piloted by Peter Carlin, flown in specially for the maneuver, was forced to hover forty feet off the ground and lower a rescue basket. First Foster, then Freeman and finally Straker were hauled up to the rocking, swaying machine, wrapped in blankets and fed steaming cups of coffee during the trip to Njordsberg Base. From there they were transferred to a private jet for the final leg back to England.  
  
Only hours later, warm, rested and feeling nearly human again, Commander Ed Straker and Colonel Alec Freeman strolled the corridors of SHADO HQ, leaving a trail of cigar smoke in their wake. They paused near the entrance of the main sickbay at the sound of raised voices from within.  
  
"... want to know where my clothes are!" Paul Foster's strong baritone was raised in anger, his words clipped. In contrast, the second voice was heavily accented and lilting, almost caressing for all its reasonableness.  
  
"Your arm is broken in two places, you have a concussion and have spent most of the day in a state of shock. As Chief Medical Officer ..." The title was definitely stressed. "... I am prescribing hospitalization for the next seventy-two hours."  
  
Outside, Straker and Freeman exchanged an amused look then strode through the open door to see Foster, clad only in hospital pajama bottoms and a sling for his arm, glowering at a short, wiry man with gray-flecked dark hair and a prominent nose. Several inches shorter than the pilot, Doctor Doug Jackson, nee Dogan Jankowicz in his native Poland, stood nose-to-nose, unintimidated by the implied threat in the younger man's stance. Neither so much as glanced up at the newcomers' entrance.  
  
"Something wrong, Dr. Jackson?" Straker asked innocently, waving his cigar genially in greeting.  
  
"Nothing is wrong, Commander." Jackson returned an impassive gaze on Foster's flushed face, his hands waving little patterns in the air. "My patient was just about to return to his bed."  
  
"I'm going home," Foster retorted, clutching the white cotton sling closer; beneath the cotton could be seen the outline of a metal brace securing the broken bones in place. "Just as soon as Doctor Jackson returns my clothes."  
  
Secure in his authority, the short physician simply tipped his head to the side. "I'm ordering hospitalization for the next three days, bedrest for five. If you are making progress, you may leave the medical bay the day after tomorrow." He waved his hands again, then folded them at his waist.  
  
Frustrated, Foster turned an appealing gaze on Straker, who was listening impassively. "I don't need a hospital. I can rest easier in my own bed. And I will be fit for duty tomorrow."  
  
"Next Tuesday," Jackson interjected calmly, earning another glare.  
  
A low chuckle emerged between Alec Freeman's teeth borne on a cloud of gray smoke. "You children be nice," he advised, stuffing his hands jauntily into his pockets, "or we won't let you play together anymore."  
  
Straker ignored him, preventing the argument from escalating by raising his hand. "Dr. Jackson is right," he told the dismayed looking Foster. "Back to bed." The protest clear in the younger man's eyes, he punctuated the statement with a jab of the cigar. "That's an order, Colonel. If you're up to it, you can go home in the morning."  
  
The compromise placated the younger man somewhat, though it was Jackson's turn to look irritated. He was too wise to make demurral, however, and merely nodded. "After rounds," was all he said on the subject. Releasing the upset pilot from his gaze, he turned next to study the visitors, particularly Straker, who was closest. Before the other knew what he was doing, he'd taken Straker's smooth chin in one hand and tilted it to the side, staring hard at the small bandaid nearly hidden by the platinum hair; a purple bruise extended around its edges about an inch. "Does that hurt?" he demanded suddenly.  
  
Straker retreated precisely one pace, eyes growing stony. "Not a bit."  
  
As unfazed by this cool rebuff as he was by Foster's heat, Jackson continued to stare another minute, then skimmed Freeman, snapped, "If it does, you are to tell me immediately," and strode off in the direction of the labs.  
  
The three watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before moving themselves. Shoulders slumping with fatigue, Foster allowed the visitors to usher him back to the private rooms, entering the nearest one and seating himself on the edge of the bed. "I thought you two would have already gone home," he began by way of conversation.  
  
Freeman threw himself into the single visitor's chair and took the cigar from his mouth. "Looking forward to it. Few last minute items to clear up first. Ginnie wanted a full explanation of what happened -- she gets very annoyed when her electrical supports get kicked out from under her. She's not going to be happy until she has something concrete to analyze."  
  
Straker frowned, one fist going to his hip. "That reminds me, Alec. Schedule a cleanup crew to be ready to move out at first light. Make sure they retrieve all three snowcats and whatever's left of that Ufo. I don't want any evidence left that SHADO personnel were ever in the area."  
  
"Already done," Freeman returned, smiling at Straker's surprised look. "Colonel Lake's telepathy is in good working order."  
  
The American grunted something in reply and perched on the foot of the hospital bed where he could see both men. "How are you feeling, Paul?" he asked, arctic colored eyes skimming the pilot analytically.  
  
"I'm fine," the younger man insisted, adding before that critical gaze, "except for being a little sore. Nothing a couple of aspirin won't cure."  
  
"We were going to bring you a box of cigars," Freeman joked, waving his own fragrant Havana in the air. "but at the last minute we remembered that tobacco isn't one of your vices, so we decided to smoke them ourselves."  
  
"Thank you very much," Paul Foster returned dryly.  
  
"So," Freeman went on, unabashed, "we decided to pick your brains instead, and compare your impressions with what the Commander saw inside the ship."  
  
A uniformed nurse strolled past the room's glass front wall; in her late twenties and built like the current Miss America, she drew the attention of every male eye there. Foster sighed audibly, then blinked and cleared his throat, mildly embarrassed under his Commander's frosty look. "What I saw ..."  
  
"What I just saw," Alec breathed, shaking his head.  
  
"... inside the ship," the younger man went on doggedly. He arranged the sling more comfortably on his bare chest, dark blue eyes narrowed. "There isn't much. Everything was starting to blur on me by then."  
  
Platinum hair barely moved as SHADO's supreme commander leaned forward intently, his posture the epitome of interest. "Think, Paul. Anything you can remember, any detail could be important."  
  
Foster's boyish face creased, his fingers rubbing circles on his sore arm. "The airlock was open when I got there ... some sort of green fluid dribbling out onto the snow. It was about ankle deep inside but bubbling -- evaporating rapidly."  
  
"I remember the fluid pretty well." Straker ruefully touched the tiny bandaid on his forehead. "As we suspected, they maintain a fluid-filled environment inside the ship. The whole thing must be filled with it in flight."  
  
Naugahyde squeaked as Alec rearranged himself more restfully in the visitor's chair. He hiked his brown trousers up and crossed his legs at the knee. "The ship's revolution provides a centrifugal effect of plus-six gravities. How do they function through the maelstrom effect?"  
  
"Could the outer hull be gimballed?" Foster guessed.  
  
"One more little mystery." The American's voice was sour; he'd never liked mysteries. "Go on, Paul. What else did you see?"  
  
The young man had been watching his superiors intently during the discussion. Now he focussed on the white bedclothes, attempting to summon an image. "There was a central column, and lights -- all different colors arranged in groups." He paused, then shook his head. "Everything else is disjointed ... fragments. I saw the Commander strapped to a table ... I shot at the alien ... we ran and something blew up." He raised his left hand, palm up. "That's about it. The next thing I knew was waking up here with Jackson poking me with needles."  
  
Disappointment in this sparse recital apparent, Straker puffed on his cigar silently for a full minute, light brows furrowed. "Not much help. I was hoping...."  
  
"He was barely conscious, Ed," Alec offered sympathetically.  
  
"Wait, there was something else!" Both visitors cocked inquiring eyes at the younger man's exclamation. Foster sat up straighter, gripping his arm rather than rubbing it. "The screens. They looked like our own monitors but the pictures were ... strange. Swirling colors rather than clear images."  
  
"Which didn't make any sense." Straker waved the stub of his cigar, glared at it, then dropped it carelessly to the floor. "I saw no maps, symbols, images ... nothing to correlate with the real world. They could have been decorations, for all we know."  
  
Blue eyes locked with his own. "Do you think they're focussed for underwater viewing?" the young pilot hazarded, earning a grunt.  
  
"Possible, Paul, but...." Again Straker trailed off. He punched his thigh with one fist, producing a minuscule wrinkle in the tan material. "There's more, I know there is."  
  
Freeman's chair creaked again. "Even though the aliens are using human eyes, doesn't mean that's what their perceptions are based on. If their senses are enhanced--"  
  
"Perceptions," Straker echoed, looking startled. "Perceptions ... mental perceptions!" Revelation lit his smooth features, melting the arctic eyes from within. "That was the missing piece!" He glanced from one puzzled face to the other. "Don't you get it? We were blinding ourselves by considering only the physiological differences in the alien body." He again leaned closer to Foster, though it was both men he addressed. "I think you're right, Alec -- the alien perceptions are different than ours. Consider." He ticked points off on his fingers. "When we see, it's a physical act -- light enters the eye and is transmitted bio-electrically to the brain. But the aliens are highly advanced in the various forms of psionics, perhaps because that coordinates with their own natural abilities."  
  
Freeman's jaw dropped. "You think the aliens, being natural espers, make use of their mental abilities for such everyday things as enhancing sight and sound?"  
  
Straker shrugged. "Why not? Some humans claim to be able to sense things happening many miles way. If the aliens have developed that ability to the full, it could be as natural to them as seeing is to us! It would also explain those light control panels on the ship."  
  
"What about those light control panels?" Foster prodded, fatigue temporarily fading before the older man's contagious exhilaration.  
  
Fine lips twitched, for Straker the equivalent of a broad grin. "You remarked yourself about the multi-colored panels. They were grouped in a pyramid configuration six high, at various spots around the ... we'll call it the bridge for want of a better term."  
  
"They were also all over that central column," Foster interjected, pushing himself back to rest against the wall. "Some were around the monitors."  
  
"Psionics might also explain something else." Straker's face lost expression, his quicksilver mind already lightyears ahead of the conversation. "I pressed several of those colored buttons in varying combinations; nothing happened at first. Until...." He laced his fingers together and rested them on his knee; his back was ramrod straight, eyes peering at realities far removed from the sterile little hospital room. "I had my hand on one of the lights, a red one -- not pushing it, just a bare touch. I was speculating about pilot controls. The ship moved."  
  
Fascinated by the narrative, Freeman removed his now cold cigar, holding it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "It was already starting to decompose," he pointed out reasonably. "Couldn't that have been pre- critical tremor?"  
  
Straker shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't think so. It happened twice. And when I touched the access control and thought about movement, the door slid open." He rubbed his bruised forehead ruefully. "Unexpectedly."  
  
"Their ships could be controlled by the sheer power of their minds." Alec said the words quietly, awe stricken at the concept. "For the last several months we've been covertly studying several subjects on this planet who claim psionic abilities, but to imagine an entire technology based on it...."  
  
"Functional espers." A lock of tousled brown hair dislodged itself when Paul shook his head, hanging down nearly to his eyes; he brushed it back with a weary gesture. He was less enthused than his older colleagues, discouragement making him slump. "You know what this means, don't you? We've been fighting on the assumption that we're destroying aliens with each attack; but they might not even be present, for all we know. What if they're sitting back, safe and happy on their homeworld, directing everything telepathically." His mouth turned down at the corners, expression growing sad. "We could have spent all this time doing nothing except killing our own people."  
  
"Their people." Straker's words were as hard as his face, his eyes ice chips brooking no argument. "They stop being ours as soon as the aliens take them."  
  
Exhaustion visibly returned, Foster dropped his gaze, preferring to again stare at the linens. "But we're still practically back at square one," he said tiredly. "Jocko, Peg and Ali died and we gained nothing."  
  
"We gained a new field of research, Colonel, that could institute the most powerful, longest range offensive we have yet." White teeth flashed wolfishly. "Tomorrow I'm instituting a full-scale research project on the development of psionic weapons. It's a new angle, Colonel, and sometimes that's what winning a war is all about." Straker slid off the bed, offering the younger man an amiable nod. "Get some rest. We have a lot of work to do in the morning."  
  
***  
  
end 


End file.
